


In the face of your light

by noverture



Series: In the face of your light [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "Solas and Lavellan have the emotional IQ of dry bowls of pasta", "holding hands? Better up that rating to E with this kind of intimacy.", "more powerful than teenage angst; beware", Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Elven Mysteries Afoot, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Lavellan is exhausted(TM), M/M, Mind the Rating, Or Is It?, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It, Well of Sorrows (Dragon Age), fen'harel ain't slick, his friends want him to sleep, i didn't mean to write an epic but here we are, it's about the yearning your honour, lavellan loves his friends very much, secrets and spirits and lies oh my!, some liberties with lore expansion, some quotes from my readers because they're funnier than i will ever be:, this is a long one kiddies so strap in, updates on monday and thursday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 358,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noverture/pseuds/noverture
Summary: "Here lay the world in tatters and ruins, littered with the remains of once mighty armies and terrible cities. Brought to its knees by the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf who was all pride and no wisdom, all guilt and no atonement."---Inquisitor Lavellan saved the world, lost the world, then saved it again - loved and lost, loved and lost. Cruel joke upon cruel joke piled atop each other under the disguise of destiny and fate, until the curtains fell on him and Solas with their blades piercing the other's heart. It was a disgustingly poetic end.And because his luck was rotten, he wakes at the moment before it all began.A second chance or a second doom? Lavellan wasn't sure which he preferred.---"Uncover the past, little raven, the Wolf is not the liar here. Those who walk the shadows never leave."
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Male Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Male Lavellan, Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Solas, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: In the face of your light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894804
Comments: 2146
Kudos: 964
Collections: Favorite Self-Insert and OC-Centric Fanfics, Greats fics currently ongoing





	1. Fools that we are

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the forest is dark and deep and i've seen you here before](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13272102) by [victoriousscarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf). 



_we danced upon the World's edge―_

* * *

He was weary, weathered, worn, the taste of defeat acerbic in his throat.

Here lay the world in tatters and ruins, littered with the remains of once mighty armies and terrible cities. Brought to its knees by the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf who was all pride and no wisdom, all guilt and no atonement.

Not that it mattered. It was too late now and they both knew and understood that they would leave the world in ruins and that they wouldn't be there to see it fall and rebuild.

There was only one way this would end: with their blades piercing the other's heart.

Blood slipped from Lavellan's lips and they shared a smile ― a secret, cruel joke. This too, was apt. There the two of them were, two fools upon the edge of a dying world, pushing each other towards their caskets of flame.

Lavellan laughed, broken and dry. He was hurting everywhere, but pain had long since become his armour. He summoned the last of his breath to ask, “Is this your victory?”

The proud Wolf smiled. “As much as it is yours.”

Lavellan pushed the blade further.

“Farewell, Solas.”

They fell. Lost in a world that would mourn neither. Lavellan closed his eyes.

The Well of Sorrows whispered, and the lamenting voice of the Ancients crooned a lullaby―

_Ma garas mir renan  
Ara ma’athlan vhenas[1]_

Lavellan opened his eyes to a sky littered with stars, cold tears tracking down the side of his face and into his hair.

The air filling his spasming lungs was fresh, crisp, sharp in a way that could only belong to a forest at night. Not the stench of death and decay and rust from blood and iron. Not the fetid rot of a battlefield. The sky was dark from night and not smoke, and most of all, no blade was piercing his heart.

He shot up in alarm, scrambled, felt grass beneath his hands―

Hands. Plural.

His breath hitched. Lavellan didn’t dare look, didn’t dare hope. He opened his left hand, let it glide over the blades of grass slipping and tickling between fingers, brushing over calloused palms. No, that couldn’t be.

Lavellan wiped his tears, mustered a fortifying breath, and looked down.

Indeed, there it was. Left hand, left arm. The works. The whole limb, intact, without green racing through his nerves and forcing them to sing in pain.

_It was fire in his veins, surging with every heartbeat and it was going to kill him, Creators, Andraste, and the motherfucking Maker, it was going to kill him, drive him mad, consume his waking and dreaming thoughts._

_And Solas took it all away. The pain, the Anchor, his bloody arm._

Lavellan traced his fingers over his arm. It was real. He looked down at himself. Gone was the armour that had fit him like a second skin, the armour that had seen him through the madness of a god, replaced with the common hunting gear that he'd worn during his time with Clan Lavellan. The prosthetic arm Dagna and Harritt had made was also gone. There was no need for it when there was flesh and bone once more.

Or perhaps everything that had happened, that had been… Could it all have been a dream? All those faces conjured by his mind? The camaraderie, the difficulties, the―

The sorrow.

And the Well of Sorrows still lingered, whispering at the back of his mind. A reminder that nothing was as it seemed.

Lavellan rose, eyes wary, heart weary. What was this then? One final trick from Solas? A mirage from his dying mind?

His pack rested by his bedroll and his throat constricted at the sight. The small wooden carving of a halla head rested on it. He’d laboured over it for a long time, and he'd finished it the night before…

The night before he had set out for the Conclave.

What was this? His life flashing before his eyes? Lavellan crouched and set the halla head aside and dug through his pack, found the small mirror tucked between all the essentials. His mother’s mirror.

Lavellan pulled it out, unwrapped the cloth protecting it, and his eyes widened at his reflection.

The Lavellan who stared back at him was the same Lavellan who'd shaken the foundations of the world, held it in his hands, then lost it. This was not how he'd been before this began. The haunted look in his eyes was already here, and weariness and time had already aged his face. This was not the Lavellan of six years ago. He stood now at an age of three decades but he'd gone to the Conclave at twenty-four. This made no sense.

He was unchanged yet not.

“What trick is this?” he asked but nobody answered. Not even the Well.

“Mahanon?”

Lavellan froze at the voice. That couldn’t be.

“Oh, it is. What are you doing up so early? You said you didn't plan to leave until after the sun rose.”

The last time he'd heard that voice was so long ago that he’d forgotten how it sounded. And yet, it was familiar. Home.

_Ara ma’athlan vhenas._

He turned and there stood his sister, making her way over, staff in hand and book in another.

“Ellana,” he said, voice breaking. Tears threatened to spill again, hot and searing behind his eyes. “It’s you.”

“Afraid not. I’m a demon, you see,” she replied tartly.

He laughed, and before he could stop himself, threw his arms around her. She squawked and knocked his head with her staff by accident but he didn’t care because she was here, she was solid and breathing. He held her tighter. All he remembered was the letter in his hands, crumpled, stained with tears as his advisors respectfully turned their heads away and let him leave the War Room prematurely.

_I regret to inform you that there are no surviving members of Clan Lavellan._

Never had the chance to say farewell. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Ellana complained but wrapped her arms around him regardless.

Lavellan didn’t care. He memorised all he could — her hair under his hand, as white as his, rough and no doubt tangled due to her lack of care, the smell of pages and herbs and forest and campfire smoke clinging to her clothes.

He pulled back, leaned his forehead against hers.

It was surreal. Here she was, looking exactly like the preserved yet fading image of her that he'd held in his mind. Mythal’s vallaslin stretched over her forehead and down her nose, and he recalled Solas’ voice, cutting, lulling. Slave markings, he had said. But Lavellan had kept his.

“Ir abelas,” he said. “I had... a bad dream.”

She gently placed her staff and book on the ground and cupped his face, still frowning. “It’s alright, Hanon. It was just a dream; it can't hurt you.” Her eyes fell on his chest and they widened. “Creators, you’re bleeding!"

What? He looked down. Blood had seeped into his tunic, over the patch where… Where Solas had stabbed him. But no pain.

Lavellan peeled the fabric back and his skin was unmarred, no wounds. His head spun.

“It’s… not mine?” he lied.

“What's going on? Are you unwell? And when did you cut your hair? Wait, no, not important right now.” She examined his torso and muttered. “It’s true… I can’t find any injuries. Still, maybe you shouldn’t set sail for the Conclave tomorrow.”

“Someone needs to go.”

“I’ll go then. I was supposed to go anyway.”

And Lavellan trembled under the weight of his memories. He should be dead. He should be dead and Solas should be dead. But Ellana? Ellana was her, was warm, was living.

If she went, she would be the dead one.

“What cruel trick is this?” he whispered and this time, he couldn't stem his tears. Ellana's eyes widened, and he needed to pull himself together, needed to be strong. She needed him to be strong. He couldn't—

She gathered him in her arms and he clung to her like a babe.

He couldn't be strong. Not now.

“Hanon? Talk to me, please. What’s wrong?”

He was supposed to die; he was ready to die. Why would he be shown this cruelty? Visions of his life before the Conclave, before the Inquisition, before Fen’Harel and his inane and daft plan and his stories and his drawings and idiosyncrasies?

“ _Elgara vallas, da’len [2]_,” Ellana sang, soothed, swiped her thumb to catch his tears. A lullaby their mother used to sing-. Her face was faint, fainter now over the years, but her lullaby was permanent despite her passing. He shouldn’t be so surprised it worked. His weeping ceased, his shoulders quivered instead of seized, and his breaths steadied.

After he died, the Well had sung this to him. Now here he was. Where was here?

Three rounds of the lullaby later, he was calm enough to ease his deathly grip on her robes, though he still refused to let go.

“Hanon?” she tried again. “Do you want me to get the Keeper?”

“No,” he croaked, shook his head. Creators, but he felt like a petulant child hanging on to their parent’s clothes after a terrible nightmare.

“Okay," she said, soft. "This dream then. What about it?”

“Maybe this is the dream,” he whispered. “You died. The clan died. I died. The world is ashes, and now it’s not. It’s back to how it was.”

“Better not be a dream. I’ve been working too damn hard the past few days. I’d hate for all my efforts to be for nothing.”

He snorted. How he'd missed her and her unerring confidence, unwavering smile, sharp wit, and intelligence. Perhaps Ellana would have made a better Inquisitor.

The thought of that curdled his stomach. It would be her who would make the sacrifices, make the choices, bear the burdens and responsibilities and the blood on her hands. Her who would grit her teeth in dark rooms as she mastered the pain she carried. All so she could face the world with a composed determination and never once betray how she would scream and weep behind closed doors.

No. Better not.

Lavellan waited until his thoughts were coherent, and gathered what little he knew. He and Solas had killed each other, and just as he was about to die, the Well had whispered and he'd heard his mother’s lullaby. Now he was here. Back to the night before he'd set out for the Conclave. Was he sent back to the past? Or was this magic? Meddling with his mind?

“I dreamt that Fen’Harel returned, wishing to restore what was," said Lavellan. "He took on the guise of a harmless apostate. A strange but learned elf who kept to himself and preferred to go barefoot and hated tea and only drank them when he was upset.” Recounting Solas sent a heavy hook reeling through the underside of his ribs. “He took my heart, then he took my arm, and then he burned the world. And then we took each other’s lives.” Lavellan sent Ellana a self-deprecating and wry smile. “Crazy, right?”

“It was just a dream,” she murmured. “There’s no way I or the clan would have let you stand against Fen’Harel alone.”

_No, but you were dead._

And besides, it was better that she hadn't stood beside him. Otherwise―

_Cassandra slumped over the dagger he'd buried into her stomach and all he could say was, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as profuse as the blood spilling over his hand and his body wouldn’t follow him. Wouldn’t obey. Couldn’t even fix Solas a venomous glare. Couldn't do that past the tears and the shriek of the Well in his ears anyway._

He gasped, grasped at his chest. “No. You shouldn't be by my side. He’ll make me turn on you.”

“Hanon, hey!” She cupped his cheeks again and they were so warm, so real, so alive. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay. You’re not dreaming any more. This is real.”

“How do I know that?” And even to him, he sounded so broken. Did the Well whisper or did it snicker? Laughed at its pathetic host?

“I’m real,” she enforced. “Now, please, breathe for me.”

He took in shaky breaths under her watchful eyes as she murmured encouragements and waited for his breathing to even.

“Are you sure you’re fit to head out tomorrow?” she asked.

Lavellan gave in to his weakness, if for a moment. “No. I’d rather not,” he admitted.

No Herald, no Inquisitor, no Inquisition. He could stay here, help his clan… Lavellan wanted to stay here forever. If this truly was a dream, or if this was an afterlife, he would stay.

But if it wasn’t? Could he remain here knowing he could have done something but didn’t? Some other poor sod would try to save Divine Justinia and receive the Anchor, and possibly the Inquisition. But they wouldn’t know about Solas.

“Alright,” said Ellana, “I’ll let Keeper Deshanna know. I’m sure I can come up with a reason. Warleader needs to stay with the clan and all, and I’m the First so―”

“No.” He managed to extricate himself from her and he already mourned the loss of her warmth. “I said I’d rather not, not that I won’t. I’m sorry, Lana. I worried you unnecessarily.”

He couldn’t bear to meet her gaze. It pinned him, heavy. But it wasn’t the kind of heavy that he'd felt from the eyes of the faithful or of the soldiers, their worship painting his skin and hardening like resin, displaying his pain for all to see. They had placed his anguish on a pedestal because they wished for a perfect story, a perfect hero.

And a perfect hero was a suffering one.

“What’s really going on?” she asked. “This can’t be just about the dream. And it’s not just your hair that’s changed either, Hanon. It’s… It’s all of you. You’re different, I don’t know how to explain it. I―” Ellana shook her head and he wondered if the lost look on her face was what the others had seen in him during his fumbling leadership. A lost, little elf who had stumbled into something bigger than himself. 

Lavellan considered telling her the truth. How would she take it? Would she see him as a madman?

But he felt raw and wrecked and he'd been fighting in a war which, for him, was only a scant few minutes ago. Ellana was a fragment of home. He couldn’t help but succumb to his weakness.

“Ellana, I died,” he whispered. “It was real. It wasn’t a dream. But something sent me back in time, back before it all began. Fen’Harel is real and he’s out there and I must stop him. I have to go to this Conclave.”

Could he set out now? Leave early? Could he prevent Divine Justinia’s death or the explosion?

“I― You’re not making any sense! That… Hanon, this isn’t funny. I know you like to jest but this isn’t a very good one.”

He gave her a long, fatigued look and a brittle smile. “No. Ellana, I’m from the future. Take a long hard look at me. I’m older, I look like I’ve fought wars instead of just leading hunts across the forest, and I’m having mental breakdowns every five minutes.”

“I think _I’m_ going to have a mental breakdown.”

Lavellan reached for her hands, realised he had two again, and wrapped hers in his instead.

“I want to run so terribly badly,” he admitted. “I want to stay here with you and ignore what’s bound to happen next and continue leading hunts. Where the worst we had to worry about were bears and aggressive humans. But I can’t. I can’t stay here, knowing what’s going to happen.”

She searched his eyes, almost beseeching. “You’re not lying, are you?”

“I wish I was.”

Her hands shifted so they were holding his. “Let someone else do it.”

“No,” he murmured. “I know who Fen’Harel is. I can keep an eye on him and maybe change how it all unfolds. And he’s only one of many enemies. Right now, there’s a much more imminent threat and I must act quick.”

Ellana gave him a grave look, held it for a second or two, then leaned close and pressed their foreheads together once more. “I am proud to call you brother,” she said. He closed his eyes to stop the tears lest he run out. He had yet to see his old companions; those who had fallen, those who had betrayed him. It'd be embarrassing if he exhausted all his anguish now, no? He had to leave some for the road.

 _The Inquisitor was hilarious_ , Cassandra had said.

 _Am I still hilarious, Cassandra?_ he thought. _Even after I’ve driven a dagger through you?_

“I still find it hard to believe,” Ellana said, “and I’m terrified for you. But if you ever need me, need us, all you have to do is ask.”

Lavellan took a shuddering breath. “Whatever happens next, know that I’m proud to be part of Clan Lavellan.”

They separated. “When you see Fen’Harel, kick his backside.”

He smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

The journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes would take two weeks, and so, once day broke over the horizon, he set out. He left the halla head he'd carved with Ellana.

Perhaps this was all a dream, a final projection of a dying mind. Or perhaps he really was sent back in time. Whatever the answer, he couldn’t risk being idle.

The waters of the Waking Sea crested and swelled, darkness in its depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter sketches were drawn by Childish_Midget([@cdraconik](https://www.instagram.com/cdraconik/)) unless stated otherwise.
> 
> \---  
> 
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1]  
>  **Ma garas mir renan:** Follow my voice[⇧]  
>  **Ara ma'athlan vhenas:** I will call you home  
> [2] **Elgara vallas, da'len:** Sun sets, little one[⇧]  
> \---
> 
> This began with a 'What if?' and then I just got too invested and the plot got complicated and I had nowhere to put all these words. 
> 
> Thank you, Patrick Weekes for writing such a godawful yet beautifully and tragically complex character. I enjoy the pain and hours of character analysis. Here is my addition now that it's self-isolation time.
> 
> The lullaby is called Mir Da'len Somniar and it's to the tune of [totalspiffage's cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zl3CmzQY1So) \- it's beautiful. I love it.


	2. Twice around the twist of vine

_a never-ending rhythm of time―_

* * *

Travelling through Ferelden filled him with a choking ache. Patches of land were still scarred from the Blight, but at least they weren’t ash ― still intact. Not torn apart by Solas’ inane plans. Seeing Haven again was a punch to his gut.

He had gotten so used to being watched and scrutinised at all times that the ease in which he slipped into obscurity was almost a comfort. The procession of Templars and mages was as he remembered. Two lines headed for the Temple.

Lavellan did his best to avoid Cassandra or Leliana and her many agents.

His mind whirled. _Could_ he prevent the Divine’s death? Could he prevent so many others from being killed in the blast? Should was the better question.

Furthermore, what had sent him to the past and why?

_“Your curiosity will drive you far, lethallin,” Solas said. “But remember that a time will come when you must first act and save the questions for later.”_

Lavellan’s face soured at the memory, but Solas was right, loathe as Lavellan was to admit it. And no matter how he looked at it, altering the events of the Conclave would be difficult given his limited time and lack of planning. You’d think two weeks on the ship would help but the rocking ensured that he felt too nauseous to think. All he knew was that receiving the Anchor preceded the explosion.

If he interrupted the ritual earlier, would that prevent the explosion? Or was the explosion already bound to happen, triggered by the imparting of the Anchor?

No, he had to move now.

Whatever sent him back in time could have at least given him the courtesy of sending him days or even weeks before the journey to the Conclave. That way, he could have planned better for it.

Or it could've just given him the time to run away.

Maybe this was for the best then.

The last time he entered the Temple of Sacred Ashes, his mind was focused on the practicality, thinking of where it would be optimal to hide and how. Now, he his mind carried the burden of knowing that this would once again change him and the world and that he was helpless to stop it. Lavellan briefly considered retirement. Maybe he’d die if this second attempt goes horribly wrong.

“Someone help me!”

Lavellan was already running.

He stormed through the doors, yelled, “Get away from her!”

Corypheus was there, tall and foreboding and just as disgustingly crusty as when Lavellan had last seen him. Justinia sent the orb reeling towards him.

Lavellan reached.

Green fire raced through his nerves and turned him into light. All he could do was laugh in his mind.

The pain had returned. His armour was rebuilding.

Green and white, faint laughter, the skittering of many legs, the blinks of a thousand eyes, the rotten breath of despair―

Plunged into darkness and cold stone floor, bound and kneeling.

The Anchor flared, and it had been so long since he'd felt this brand of agony. He gasped and doubled over.

The door swung open and he wished the ground would open beneath and swallow him.

Cassandra neared. Her gait was unmistakable, ready for the world with an iron will and a burning heart.

She stopped in front of him and all he could do was look at her boots and note how many creases there were in the leather. He remembered when she had swapped them out for steel-tipped boots. For kicking purposes, mainly, but also, an arrow had landed dangerously close to her foot once and she decided it was better to take precautions before she found holes in her feet.

Turned out she needn’t worry about holes in her feet. He’d give her one through the stomach.

_“I am honoured to have met and fought beside you, Inquisitor.”_

No, stop―

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” Cassandra spat, and now he could distinguish the note of loss in her furious and accusatory tone. “ _You_ were the only one to survive the explosion at the Conclave.”

The Anchor pulsed. The Breach was expanding.

Lavellan took a steadying breath and finally met Cassandra’s eyes. They burned, searing into him, desperate for and demanding answers. The seeking Seeker. In the future, she had grown her hair just past the shoulders. Not too long. It would get in the way otherwise, she said.

“Because the sky has been torn,” he answered and averted his gaze. He tried to keep his breathing steady. “And it’s killing me. By all means, you can just leave me be and I’ll die on my own either way.” He really, _really_ hoped they wouldn't. How could he even know if this was the same Cassandra he had become acquainted with over time? The past may have been altered already. Perhaps this wasn’t his original version of the past. Either way.

Leliana finally came closer, pinning him with her shrewd eyes. She had been Divine Victoria. Ruthless, cold, silencing any who dared to oppose her.

“What do you remember?” she asked.

Leliana he could bear to look at. Leliana who he'd glanced at after he'd killed Cassandra. She'd been hidden up a hillside with an arrow nocked, and he'd begged, _begged_ her with his eyes to loose the arrow and kill him before Solas used him to hurt others. She had hesitated then. He almost laughed. The Divine who had reddened the Sunburst Throne _hesitated_.

“My clan sent me to spy on the Conclave, to see whether the decisions that would be made that day will be detrimental for us,” he admitted. “I entered the Temple before the meeting began to scout the area, but I heard the Divine screaming for help. I…”

How much should he reveal? Should he reveal Corypheus? If he did, they may become more focused on reaching him, and that could alter the course of events in a way that would make it harder to remain a step ahead of Corypheus.

“I tried to help, and there was this... shadow." Lavellan frowned. There were vague memories of the Fade, but they were wisps in his periphery. "My memory stops there. I think something is interfering with it.”

Cassandra grabbed him by the edges of his coat. “You’re lying!”

Leliana eased her away and Lavellan bit his lip in frustration. He’d gotten used to their easy camaraderie. Cassandra had been a supporting constant, a strong foundation who had held him steady throughout the many difficult choices he would make, had given him her unwavering faith. Her terribly misplaced unwavering faith. To be at the mercy of her anger wrenched the tight feeling in his stomach even further.

“To what end?” he asked.

“It’s convenient, is it not? That you suddenly don’t remember what happened? Or that you just happened to be at the right place at the right time?”

Yes, that was literally how he became Inquisitor.

“You have every right to be upset,” he said. “I would be too. But please… All I know is that people died. I think I can help with this.” He wiggled his hand in the stocks, still pulsing green though it was absent of pain. For now. “I couldn’t help the Divine. Let me help everyone else she left behind.”

Leliana and Cassandra shared a look before Leliana crossed her arms and eyed him.

“Why would a Dalish elf concern himself with the affairs of humans? Much less want to help them?”

“I’m Dalish, not a monster,” he snapped.

Leliana only frowned further.

“This affects the elves just as much as humans. Why would I murder the Divine? That would bring wrath upon the elves,” he said. “They’ve suffered enough.” And they will suffer more.

The two were silent, the green light of the Anchor flickering over the slopes of their faces, glinting in their eyes. Finally, Cassandra sighed and faced Leliana.

“I’ll take him to the rift. I’ll meet you at the forward camp,” she said. Leliana threw him a final, scrutinising look before she nodded and left the two. Cassandra tugged on Lavellan’s shackles and he rose, watched as she replaced them with rope. “I suspect that the mark is tied to the Breach. If we can test it on something smaller, perhaps we can determine if it’s the key to stopping all this.”

Lavellan watched its green light dance over his skin. “I think you may be right.”

Leaving Haven’s Chantry brought the world into colour, turned it real. He had left Haven buried under snow, then returned to reclaim it as they hunted Solas down, and now here they all were again. It always seemed to return here. The Breach hovered in the sky, pulsing like a sickly heart, and he could feel the stirrings of pain from the Breach’s expansion swelling like the waves of the Waking Sea. It would later reach the shore and batter him with hurt.

Accusing eyes fell upon him. He recognised Harritt by the tents, the grim face of quartermaster Threnn who had perished with Haven years ago. Faces of the dead and old friends stared at him as they passed.

He had no doubt they’d throw stones at him if they could and only refrained due to Cassandra’s presence.

“She was well-loved,” he noted.

Cassandra pursed her lips, a flash of hurt in her eyes. “Yes.”

“I’m not lying, I hope you know,” he said. “I didn’t kill her.”

“That remains to be seen."

“Why would I do this to myself, Cassandra? It seems counterintuitive.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know my name?”

He realised his slip too late but was quick to cover it up. “I overheard Leliana say your name. And I heard you say Leliana’s name, before you ask.” She scowled, as if trying to cast back into her memories and assess his claims, but the Breach expanded and the mark pulsed with searing heat. It took him by surprise and he fell to his knees with a strangled yelp.

Cassandra knelt beside him, her scowl and focus redirecting to the mark. She regarded the Breach then his hand.

“It’s killing you,” she observed.

 _I’m already dead_ , Lavellan thought.

“It can try,” he said instead.

That, at least, made her lips twitch but she got up before he could be sure.

Once out of Haven’s gates and on the bridge (the whole walk spent in a silence of one-sided animosity), she cut his bindings. He rubbed his chafed wrists. Still, it felt surreal to have a left wrist at all, to touch things and _feel_ their texture, feel the give of the skin on his fingertips

“I know I didn’t kill her,” he tried again, “and that someone else did. And that someone else is out there.”

_“I desperately wanted to blame someone,” Cassandra confessed. “Anyone.”_

“For what it’s worth," he murmured, glancing down, "I'm sorry. I never wanted this and I don’t want to be your enemy. You lost somebody important.”

Cassandra had been dreadfully silent thus far. It was so long ago that he couldn’t remember the exact details, but he was sure she had talked to him throughout the walk at least. Finally, she tipped her head in acknowledgement. He supposed that was the best he could ask for.

“We need to move, before the mark and the Breach spreads,” she said.

He agreed and they set off. He staggered from the pain at some point, but Cassandra righted him and for a while, he could pretend that this was the Cassandra he knew. The one who supported without words needed.

Amidst all this, Lavellan momentarily forgot about the fact that demons existed until a streak of green light spewed from the Breach and smashed the bridge they were standing on. 

They fell and rolled onto the frozen river. The ice throbbed with pocks of green and black, ready for the demon’s surfacing. Cassandra pushed him behind her, sword and shield ready.

“Stay back!” she cried as the demon burst forth. 

She chased the demon off but a new node pulsed in front of him. He cursed, searching for a weapon, and found a pair of daggers half-hidden by the toppled crates. Lavellan grabbed them just as the demon burst from the node.

It was strange, fighting with two daggers once more. Holding the blades with his prosthetic hadn't been the same. His daggers were an extension of him, responded to every minute twitch of muscle, and the prosthetic hadn’t been as fluid, couldn't keep up with the partnership of his other arm. He'd lost the rhythm. Would it feel the same now?

But like with all learned things, the body never forgot. Lavellan wove around the demon like river water rushing around stone, daggers a blur of silver. He still relied more on his right arm during the fight, still getting used to having his left arm back.

He felled the demon and turned.

And faced the point of Cassandra’s sword.

“Drop your weapon!” she ordered.

“Demons are dropping from the Breach,” he said in a tone he hoped was placating. “I need to be able to protect myself. I don’t want to become a liability to you and I don’t want to sit still knowing I can do _something_ and not being able to.”

Cassandra regarded him, still cautious, but her sword lowered the slightest.

“Stab me in the back and I will slit your throat,” she warned and sheathed her sword. Lavellan fell into visions of blood, steel, _Cassandra forgive me―_

“I can walk in front if that worries you,” he said and hoped his voice wasn’t as choked as he thought it sounded.

Perhaps not. She sighed and fell back so that they walked together.

“No, forgive me,” she said. “That was unfair of me. You have been nothing but cooperative. I may not know the true extent of your intentions but you promised to help, this I know.”

“You’re right to be wary,” he said. “After all, I may sacrifice you to the Dalish gods when you’re not looking.”

She finally cracked a wry smile. “I would not make a good sacrifice.”

“No?”

“I would yell too much.”

Lavellan snorted and they made their way through the valley. Even now, his joking was a screen. Remorse spilled out of him even if he knew, he _knew_ he’d been under Solas’ geas from the Well of Sorrows, but…

He focused on slashing through wraiths and demons instead and paid silent respect as they passed by those who had died.

Until Lavellan spotted the rift just up the hill and something dreadful filled him. Cassandra rushed up the stairs.

“Quick! You can hear the fighting!” she urged.

Lavellan followed, feeling as if he slogged through molasses.

He was right to dread when he saw the Dread in the distance. Back into the guise of humble apostate. The world spun, that rift a constant in the slurry of colours and moving shapes and―

Snap out of it!

Lavellan tore his eyes away and focused on a demon that had materialised in front of him. He danced and dodged and wove, and despite himself, despite all that had happened, once a demon crept up behind Solas, Lavellan quickly slew it.

_“Thank you, lethallin.”_

_“Getting slow,_ hahren _?_ ”

Once the demons were taken care of, the rift’s furious shards relaxed into a nebulous tremble. He knew what he had to do, but Solas grabbed Lavellan’s wrist and suddenly there was no world, there was no Haven, no valley, no demons. Only Fen’Harel as his eyes glowed blue and Lavellan’s body betrayed him.

No, never again!

“ _Don’t_!” he snapped, dagger already flashing.

Fen’Harel’s expression shifted into shock and the world returned to clarity.

His stomach lurched with horror and Lavellan stopped in time, the dagger hovering over Solas’ throat.

Solas let go of his hand and Lavellan recoiled, wrung tight, breaths rapid.

“I―” he said. Elgar'nan's backside, he almost skewered Solas. _Well, you technically already did._ “Ir abelas, I was―”

An uncertain and tense silence hung in the air.

Lavellan closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

_So what if you kill him? That’d be for the best, right? And he’s weakened now. It wouldn’t be a problem._

Lavellan would love to pretend that was the Well speaking, but it was all him.

He opened his eyes.

“The fault is mine,” said Solas and Lavellan almost wept at his voice. Get a grip. “I should have waited for the adrenaline of battle to fade.”

Lavellan could only nod, throat dry.

“I was wondering if perhaps your mark could close the rifts,” Solas offered.

“Right.” Lavellan cleared his throat and held his hand up. They always called each other ― the Anchor and the rifts. Once the Anchor latched onto the Veil, Lavellan closed his hands and the rift sealed. It had been years since he'd closed rifts, but he hadn't forgotten the motions or the strange sensation of his nerves being plucked or the shrill, teeth-grinding noise the Veil would make as it shut.

The soft howl of wind joined the uneasy silence.

It was Varric who broke it with a cheery, “Well! Never a boring moment with the company you bring, Seeker.” Lavellan immediately calmed at his voice. “Why don’t we all start with a _friendly_ round of introductions? My name is Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at a scowling Cassandra, then nodded at Lavellan. “How about you, Glowy?”

“Mahanon," he said. "Of Clan Lavellan."

Solas tipped his head. “And I am Solas. I am glad to see you are well despite the mark.”

“He kept you alive and all,” said Varric. “He knows an awful lot about the weirdest things.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan said and forced himself to look Solas in the eye. He battled with the overwhelming urge to either sock him in the jaw or hold him close and never let him go. It was strange to see him in this form again. Once he had completely assumed the role of Fen’Harel, he had returned to his Elvhen form, no longer fit for being unassuming, better suited for being the spearhead of an uprising. He had walked the land like the god his followers had hailed him to be. In dreams, he had been terrible and lupine and the source of nightmares and ill omens.

Powerful beyond measure.

And yet he had looked so miserable.

“You know about―” Lavellan waved his hand, the green light fading― “this, I take it?”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back. “Merely theories.” Bullshit. “I theorised it could close the rifts and it seems I was correct.”

Lavellan waited. Would Solas would feel the Well within him? Would he smile and ask Lavellan to protect him, kill those who would kill him? Would he say, “Turn your dagger on yourself and bury it in your heart like you had done with mine.”

No orders came. No blows. Of course not, that'd be ridiculous. He hadn't absorbed Mythal's essence yet and so, he had no hold over Lavellan.

Lavellan refocused, tuning into what seemed to be a conversation between Solas, Varric and Cassandra, but he only caught the tail of it.

“I’m in this, Seeker. Like it or not.”

Cassandra turned away with a disgusted noise. Lavellan smiled. He had missed the two of them. He glanced at Solas who already had his eyes trained on Lavellan, and Lavellan tensed.

Kick Fen’Harel’s backside, Ellana had said. He wasn’t even up to _looking_ at Fen’Harel at the moment.

“When you apologised,” said Solas, “you apologised in Elvish.”

“I _am_ an elf. Is that a problem?”

“No, I… No. I was merely surprised, considering that I have no vallaslin and am thus, not Dalish.”

“Elvish is not limited to the Dalish.”

Solas gave him a considering look. “Some would disagree.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“I did not say that.”

 _You did not say a great many things_. Lavellan cleared his throat again but he suspected it would remain dry. “Then shall we get going?”

“Sure,” said Varric, likely eager to get away from whatever awkward atmosphere had descended. “Bianca’s thrilled.” He nudged his shoulder which made his crossbow clank against his back.

Lavellan smiled. “Named after a special someone?” he teased.

“Now, now, what makes you say that?”

“Ah, so I was right.”

“Keep thinking that, Glowy.”

Lavellan chuckled before he took up the front as he had always been accustomed to, marching like he was the Inquisitor once more with his friends guarding his back, and only realised that was strange once Cassandra shot him a look.

He tried for a grin and shrugged. “See? No stabbing in the back for you.”

 _His_ back, however, was completely exposed. Cassandra _may or may not_ skewer him, Varric he trusted, but Solas… It was irrational, he knew. Still, he couldn’t stop his shoulders from tensing and the hair at the back of his neck from raising.

“What’s this about stabbing in the back?” Varric asked.

“She was worried I’d stab her in the back while she wasn't looking and run off. Nothing to worry about if she sees me in front of her.”

“So why haven’t you?” Varric asked. “Stabbed her in the back. Or run. Maker knows if I wasn’t being watched like a hawk, I would have run given the chance.”

His tone was joking, but Lavellan could discern the self-deprecation trembling beneath.

“No. You wouldn’t,” he answered. Varric could have run, but he hadn't. Wouldn't. That was just the kind of man he was, somebody who couldn’t turn a blind eye to situations where he’d be needed. Dependable when it counted. Prone to exaggerations and self-flagellation, yes, but reliable, nonetheless. Honestly, that described almost everybody in his inner circle.

“Wouldn’t he?” asked Cassandra.

Lavellan turned his head and threw a glance over his shoulder, but he met Solas’ eyes and looked away again.

“You were preoccupied with the stranger who fell out of the hole in the sky,” said Lavellan. “Varric could have run then.”

“Uh, yeah. Demons in the valley?” offered Varric.

“Could’ve avoided them and left everyone to their fates and hop on a ship away from here,” countered Lavellan.

Varric’s grumbles signalled his victory.

Varric had stayed behind to ensure a band of orphans would make it through a war-torn city safely because it was the right thing to do. Lavellan had lost track of him then. That was the same day that he and Solas killed each other.

The Breach may currently be spitting out demons but this was still more peaceful than that final battle.

Just as he thought that, the Breach expanded once more and crushed him with the shock of pain. 

Lavellan crashed into the snow, clutching his hand to his chest like a child with a broken arm as sweat broke out on his skin despite the cold. He didn't miss this. It had been worse during the Exalted Council, but that didn’t make this any more pleasant.

“Shit,” murmured Varric as he and Cassandra helped Lavellan up.

“We must hurry,” said Solas. He stayed well back, perhaps cautious after Lavellan's earlier attempts to poke holes into him. “This is the extent of what I can do to stabilise the mark.”

“Maybe we should give him a break,” said Varric. “Just sit for a few minutes and enjoy the snow and the demons in the distance.”

Lavellan gritted his teeth. “No. We have to keep going. If it only hurts when the Breach expands, then trying to close it might stop the pain. If I’m lucky.”

“Glowy, you fell out of the Fade. How lucky could you possibly be?”

“I’m alive. That’s got to count for something.”

“That’s not luck; that’s a miracle,” Varric muttered and Lavellan pretended not to hear.

They passed a few more demons and rifts along the way. He sorely wished he had the contraption Dagna had made him: a hook with a chain that pulled him towards enemies or objects so he could close distance or escape being crowded. Or even the many flasks he'd carried on him to douse himself in the elements.

But he was just as capable without them.

They helped the Inquisition soldiers eliminate the demons in front of a bridge before Lavellan closed the rift. He shook his hand out after, the entirety of it tingling like a numbed limb regaining feeling.

They opened the door and yet another dead face greeted him in the far distance, arguing with Leliana. Chancellor Roderick had perished after Haven. Roderick had just been a man afraid, like so many others. He'd been uncertain and unsure so he'd lashed out, desperate to blame _something_ lest he succumb to that uncertainty.

Didn’t make him any less of a godawful tit.

“I want him chained and taken to Val Royeaux,” the Chancellor seethed. “He will answer for the Most Holy’s death.”

Lavellan narrowed his eyes and stared the old man down. “Go ahead and try,” he warned.

Chancellor Roderick’s lips pulled back into an ugly snarl. “You _caused_ this mess!” he accused. No, the apostate behind Lavellan caused this mess.

“I hadn’t realised you were present to know for sure,” said Lavellan.

Cassandra gripped his shoulder, almost yanking him back. He took that to mean, “Shut up.”

Roderick’s face reddened. “You're―”

“Our best chance at sealing the Breach,” Cassandra interrupted. “We can stop this before it’s too late.”

“This is futile, Seeker.” Roderick's face fell then, exhaustion pulling his features down. “Abandon this now before more lives are lost. You can’t possibly reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers.”

“Unless,” Leliana said, “you take the mountain pass. It will take longer, but it’s safer. Our soldiers can charge as a distraction.”

“We've lost contact with an entire squad on that path,” said Cassandra

“I did say safer, not safest.”

“This is foolish,” Roderick said.

Cassandra ignored him and turned to Lavellan. “What do you think?”

Lavellan tilted his head with a sour twist to his lips. “Ah, yes, good idea. Ask the murderer.”

Roderick glowered. “And you mock me for suspecting you?”

“It was a joke. With you draining the humour and life from the vicinity, someone has to step up and do the world a favour,” he grumbled. “And you weren't suspecting, you were ready to tie a noose around my neck.”

“Not now, Glowy,” Varric muttered beside him.

Lavellan rubbed a hand down his face. He’d chosen the mountain path before, if only to avoid more Inquisition soldiers and so he wouldn’t have to face any more accusatory stares. His choice would be the same but for different reasons.

“The mountain pass,” he said. “You said we lost contact with an entire squad? There’s a chance they’re still alive. The longer we stay here and argue, the more that chance drops.”

“That will take a longer time,” said Solas. “It will prolong the pain that the mark and the Breach is causing you.”

“So we leave them to die for my own comfort?” he asked. “I counted forty bodies during the trek to this forward camp, Solas, and those were only the ones I saw.” He was long tired of people dying for him. Lavellan turned to Cassandra. “Is that agreeable with you?”

She sighed. “You are the one we have to protect. If I choose the other way, would you charge a different path?”

“Without hesitation.”

“Then that settles it.” She gave Leliana a resolute look. “Bring everyone in the valley.”

As they left, Chancellor Roderick murmured, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”

Cassandra forged on ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Cassandra, you're wonderful.


	3. Raise me up to fall

_the tallest shatters hardest—_

* * *

“You are far from your clan,” noted Solas.

Lavellan resisted sighing and focused instead on hoisting himself up the ladder. 

“They sent me to spy on the Conclave,” he said. Please, not now. He wanted to survive the Breach without punching Solas in the teeth first. If he didn’t, he’d just cry otherwise. That wouldn't be an impressive sight.

Cassandra thankfully cut what promised to be an argument about the Dalish short when she noted that the mine tunnels should be ahead. That distracted Solas enough.

Lavellan hurried through the tunnels and the demons within it before the patrol could become more indiscernible corpses half-buried and scattered in the snow.

When they reached the patrol, they were struggling to fend off the Terror demons. Varric must have invoked all the prominent figures of the Andrastian faith during his cursing when he saw them.

“What in Maferath's balls are _those_?” Varric asked and loosed a bolt.

The Terror demon Lavellan had his eye on crouched, preparing to burrow and reappear beneath somebody unfortunate and that somebody unfortunate happened to be Solas.

Lavellan sprinted. Barrelled into Solas without giving it much thought just as the Terror sprung from where they stood.

They crashed into the snow and rolled. The demon came after them with a hollow shriek, claws raised high as Solas threw a barrier up in time to repel the attack. The barrier trembled, shimmered blue. Lavellan scrambled up and made quick work of the demon and helped with the rest.

Once he closed the rift, the scouts approached Cassandra, winded, a few injured, but alive. Lavellan felt a weight lift. A small weight, but a weight, nonetheless.

“Lady Cassandra, thank you. I don’t think we would have held up for much longer.”

Cassandra nodded at Lavellan. “Thank the prisoner. He insisted we come this way.”

The scout’s eyes widened in recognition and he offered a small smile.

“I’m glad we made it in time,” he said. “How many wounded?”

“One sprained an ankle, another has a gash on his thigh, but the rest are minor.”

Cassandra nodded. “We've cleared the valley behind us. Go while you can.”

“Right away.” She held her fist over her chest and turned to Lavellan. “You have my sincerest thanks.”

The scouts made haste to return while they trudged on ahead.

He could feel Solas staring at him.

“You saved me,” Solas said.

Lavellan frowned. “Nothing so dramatic as that.”

“At the very least, you put me out of harm’s way. How did you know that it would surface beneath me?”

“I didn’t,” he lied. “There was a strange green light under you, and I didn’t like the look of it. My instincts ended up being right.”

“Nevertheless, you have my thanks.”

Lavellan nodded, mouth dry.

Reaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes still wasn’t any easier, not with all of the burnt bodies frozen in various poses of despair or agony, arrayed like a morbid painting in a curiosity shop. The stench of them permeated the air. Lavellan took a shaky breath. Not that it helped. The air stuck to the walls of his throat and coated his lungs with its rank.

“Shit,” Varric breathed.

Lavellan couldn’t stand it there a second longer so he moved right along.

And there, stretching impossibly wide, was the Breach in the sky.

“There it is,” murmured Cassandra.

Leliana met up with them then and stationed her scouts and the soldiers around the area. Lavellan kept staring at the Breach. It was easy to lose yourself to it, to glimpse what laid beyond and fall into it like you would into a body of water and you knew, _knew_ there would be no ripples. No sign you were ever there. Just fall. Fall and fall and forget eternity had passed and eternity would just as easily forget you had passed.

Solas’ voice broke him out of his trance.

“It would be best not to stare at it for too long,” Solas said, breaking Lavellan out of his trance.

Lavellan blinked and shook his head to clear it. “It feels like falling."

“Yes.”

The sensation was still the same, it seemed.

“Anybody willing to lend me a pair of wings so I could fly up to the Breach?” he joked.

“While that sight would be fascinating,” said Solas, “I suspect sealing the rift below it would suffice.”

“It never just works,” Lavellan mumbled. He wasn’t sure if Solas heard or not. “Let’s find a way down, then. I’d jump over the balcony but I suspect I’ll sprain something.”

They made their way around, stopped short by the crops of red lyrium. Varric recoiled and engaged in an aggressive, whispered conversation with Cassandra.

Solas grimaced. The red lyrium sang a raw, distended elegy which pained most mages to hear and even Lavellan could hear it if he deigned to pay it enough attention. As it was, he was used to ignoring strange, whispering voices at the back of his mind. Still, he gave it a wide berth. Behind him, Solas proposed an explanation for its appearance. Did he know what they actually were?

Lyrium was the blood of the Titans, as Lavellan had discovered during his expedition to the Deep Roads, which was why it could become blighted to form red lyrium. The Blight which the Evanuris had brandished as a weapon against the Titans. To poison their blood. They had failed to realise that it could work against them too.

Andruil would know. And so would Solas.

Lavellan _did_ stab him with a blighted blade. It was the only thing that could kill someone that powerful.

He eyed the Breach. That would disturb the Titan nearby once again.

_“Now is the hour of our victory.”_

Lavellan’s nerves grated at the voice.

_“Bring forth the sacrifice.”_

That pulled his companions’ conversation short.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asked.

“At a guess, the person who created the Breach,” said Solas.

 _“Keep the sacrifice still_. _”_

They finally reached the lowest area of the Temple where the rift and even further, the Breach, eddied the skies above.

_“Someone help me!”_

Cassandra froze. “That is Divine Justinia’s voice,” she exclaimed.

The Anchor flared and showered them with light before anybody could question it. Once their vision righted, echoes of the past lingered. There loomed Corypheus’ shadow before them, red eyes aflame, and Divine Justinia helpless and bound beside him. Lavellan saw himself storm in.

_“Get away from her!”_

_“Run while you can! Warn them!”_

Corypheus turned his attention to Lavellan. _“Slay the elf,”_ he ordered.

The visions vanished, a still lake in a summer afternoon.

Cassandra whirled on him. “You were there?” she asked but it held no accusation like before. “Most Holy called out to you and you tried to help her?” She scowled. “No… Who was that? Can we even trust such a vision?”

“These are echoes of the Fade,” said Solas. “It warps events but never in a way that is untrue. For now, these questions must be saved for later. Our priority is sealing the Breach.”

She narrowed her eyes. “ _Warps_ events?”

“Never in a way that is untrue,” Solas stressed. Warped things in a way that was still truth. Yes, that sounded an awful lot like a certain someone. “The rift is closed, albeit temporarily. To seal it properly, it must be opened again.”

“More demons,” Varric mumbled.

Solas nodded.

“But―” Cassandra started.

“Seeker,” Lavellan interrupted gently. “Act first, questions later.” She shot him a withering glare, but that wasn't enough to cow him. After a beat, she relented with a sigh and ordered the soldiers to stand ready.

Lavellan held a hand up to open the rift, tried to recall which demon would step out. Pride demon, he wagered. He stole a glance at Solas.

Well, they already had one here.

It was indeed a Pride demon who stepped out from the rift. Cackling, massive, intimidating. To everyone here who was only accustomed to the shades and wraiths and occasional Terror, this Pride demon must seem formidable. Varric invoked everyone in the Andrastian faith once more with the added blasphemy of including their private bits.

And all was chaos.

Lavellan had battled multiple Pride demons at the same time before, though he certainly didn’t have the gear for them now. No flasks to give him boosts, no specialised armour, no enchanted daggers.

Could he sunder the Veil momentarily with the Anchor and pull the demons back into the Fade? Or stun them at the very least. 

No, better not. There were too many clustered around the Pride demon and it would catch them in its area.

It was a careful balance of disrupting the rift and attacking. Any demons who dared to approach him while he disrupted the rift either met his blade, a bolt, or a blast of fire. Varric and Solas had his back, it seemed. He tried not to let that open the unwanted baggage of emotions in him.

The Pride demon finally fell, Leliana riding on its head with her dagger in one of its eyes and an arrow in another. That woman was frightening.

“Now!” cried Solas.

Lavellan threw his hand up to the rift. It wouldn’t work, but he tried anyway. If the Breach did close earlier than it had before, what would happen?

_Bring Corypheus’ army bearing down upon you._

He balked but had no time to consider that possibility because the world shattered into white and blew everyone away.

* * *

He awoke to the wooden rafters in a little cabin in Haven.

His mouth twisted. It didn’t work.

The Anchor was no longer being a little piss though, so the Breach had stabilised at the very least. Lavellan pushed himself up on the bed, saw the snow outside the window, felt the chill in the air. He was back in Haven. 

So what then? Was this really the past? Someone had given him a chance to redo things. That, or he was stuck in a loop, and wasn’t that just a dreary thought?

Did the Well do this? _Could_ it?

He dropped his head in his hands. So far, things had followed their previous course. If he was planning to alter things, he had to figure out what to alter and how he to do it.

 _Stick a bigger middle finger to Corypheus this time, then stick an even bigger one to Fen’Harel_ , was his thought. It sounded like Ellana’s voice.

The door opened and an elf walked in. Oh, he recognised her! She'd been able to make it out of Haven after Corypheus attacked and then she settled down in the Hinterlands once he had disbanded the Inquisition. What was her name again…?

She dropped her package once she saw he was awake.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” she said.

“No harm,” he said and rose, intending to pick up her fallen package for her.

She fell to her knees. “I beg your forgiveness, and blessing. You’re in Haven, my lord. They say you’ve saved us and stopped the Breach from getting any bigger.”

He made sure to move slow as he picked up what she'd dropped, offering them to her with a soft smile. “Nothing to forgive. Please stand.”

She looked at the offered items as if they were a curse. Not on her but on him. She quickly gathered them in her arms and scrambled up.

“I was― Take them here, I―” She set them down on the opposite table and was practically ready to scurry out the door. “The Seeker will want to know you’ve wakened. At once, she said!” Lavellan could only blink in befuddlement as she flew past him in her haste. “At the Chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. At once!”

“Wait―”

And she was out the door. Lavellan stared after her, then sighed. He never got the chance to ask what her name was.

He looked down at himself. And so, he was Herald once more. He’d wanted to run from it and vehemently refused any time anyone so much as hinted at him being the Herald of Andraste. Even now, it didn’t sit well with him. Lavellan glanced out the window. People had gathered in front of the cabin, arraying themselves in lines. As if it were his procession.

First order of business. He slipped his armour on and breathed easier.

Today would be the birth of the Inquisition and the birth of the Herald of Andraste. Would he claim it, this time?

He was tempted to go through the motions once more, to do the same things, be the same person, but he was no longer the same from when he had first fallen out of the Fade. Purpose now burned within him. He would deal with Corypheus, and meanwhile manage Fen’Harel. Manage Solas and… His shoulders slumped. Could he even accomplish that?

He braced himself and opened the door. The line of bowing and saluting people sent an uncomfortable press in his lungs. They murmured, whispered, looked upon him with reverence. Some with fear.

If Lavellan walked faster than seemed warranted towards the Chantry, nobody would dare bring it up.

“Andraste has sent him in our hour of need!”

“Bless you, Herald, bless you!”

“He saved us all.”

_The rushing snow was a terrible roar as it raced towards the small village and buried the flames, the dead, and the dying. It was never sanctuary._

_It was a trap._

Lavellan slammed the Chantry doors shut and slumped against it, sweat breaking over his skin, breaths gasping, never quite enough. Corypheus would come. He had to prepare for it. People would still die, invoking his name and Andraste’s in one dying breath and they would believe it was for the greater good. Would believe their deaths mean something. Even as their own _Herald_ failed them.

He covered his mouth, eyes watering, bile swirling within his throat.

“Why didn’t you let me die?” he asked whatever power had sent him back. “Is this your doing?” he hissed at the Well but all he heard was a chorus of murmurs.

Arguments filtered from the small door ahead where they would later set up the War Room. Lavellan closed his eyes in order to regain his bearings and practiced the calming technique Josephine had taught him. It had calmed him during bouts of stress. 

Or after waking from nightmares.

_“Close your eyes, Inquisitor, and breathe. Fill your lungs slow, as if a flower were unfurling within you. Once you are calm, open your eyes and note five things you see.”_

He forced himself to take a shuddering breath and roved his eyes over the small space. Candles, a crack on the stone floor brick, crates beside a column, book on the crate, rafters across the ceiling.

_“Very good. Four things you hear.”_

Faint arguing, the crackle of the flames, ambient chatter from outside, soft howls of wind pressing against the Chantry doors.

_“Now, please list three things you feel within your vicinity.”_

He curled his hand. Smooth stone, the door hard against his back, the inner fabric of his armour.

_“Almost there. Two things you smell.”_

Campfire smoke, lingering incense.

_“And one thing you taste.”_

Something faintly herbal. Likely a healing potion.

_“Very good, Inquisitor. How are you feeling?”_

Lavellan waited until the hurricane of his thoughts lessened into a softer gale and pushed himself up. He took a final fortifying breath as he blinked away the tears and marched to the doors.

Chancellor Roderick, Leliana, and Cassandra glanced up at his arrival. Chancellor Roderick seethed.

“Chain him! Prepare him to travel to the capital for trial.”

“Disregard that,” said Cassandra, looking all ten sorts of disgruntled. “Leave us.”

The guards saluted and left. Lavellan inched away from the fuming Chancellor and Seeker who plunged right back into an argument, and gravitated close to Leliana who watched from the sidelines. She sent him a look. He hoped she wouldn’t be able to tell that he'd been crying, but he knew she saw all.

“There remains an issue,” Leliana finally said and put a swift end to their heating argument. She knew when to watch and when to intervene. Clever Leliana. “Whoever was behind the explosion was somebody Most Holy did not expect. It’s likely they have allies who survived.” Her suspicious look fell on Roderick.

“You cannot possibly think me a suspect!”

“No,” Lavellan agreed.

Roderick crossed his arms and sneered. “You seem awfully sure about that.”

Oh for― He threw his arms up. “I apologise. I’ll do my best to incriminate you much more aggressively from now on.”

“And you still don’t consider him a suspect?” Roderick asked Leliana and Cassandra, completely ignoring Lavellan.

“The Divine called to him for help, and he answered.”

“That thing on his hand? His survival? A set of ridiculous coincidences?”

“Providence,” said Cassandra and Lavellan clenched his jaw. Here it was. “The Maker sent him to us in our hour of need.”

“He’s an elf!”

“Don’t forget Dalish,” he dryly remarked and received a reprimanding look from Cassandra.

“You can’t be serious.” Roderick turned to Cassandra, almost beseeching, and Lavellan took some pity on the man. He really was just frightened. If the order Lavellan belonged to had been upturned and turned leaderless while an unfamiliar organisation lauded an outsider as a saviour, he’d be right pissed about it too. Uncertain, at least.

Still, a tit was a tit regardless of motivation. Understanding was one thing. Tolerating was another.

“Regardless,” said Lavellan, “of my faith or my race or what colour smallclothes I prefer to wear―” Cassandra made a sound halfway between a disapproving groan and a sigh― “I’m here, like it or not. Maybe it was providence, maybe I’m an unlucky bastard, but I’ve been given an opportunity to help make things right. I can’t run from it, and I certainly won’t let you take that from me.”

Cassandra stared at him as if he had grown two heads, before she allowed herself a soft smile.

“This is not for you to decide,” said Roderick.

She drew herself up to her full height and retrieved something from behind the room. Lavellan resigned himself.

Cassandra slammed the thick book on the table. The all-seeing eye on its cover peered at him.

“As of this day forth,” she said, “I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> Lavellan is always five seconds away from either beating Solas into an omelette or crying in his arms. Which, I think, summarises a whole lot of us.


	4. It's the small things

_moments held dear or in fear―_

* * *

The Inquisition was reborn yesterday but the entire ordeal of that day had taken so much out of him that he passed out for most of the day after that meeting. He couldn’t remember if it had taken that long to recover last time.

Lavellan shuffled grouchily out of the cabin he had claimed for himself. Well, not claimed. They had given it to him.

In the past (or was it the future?), sleep had been difficult. He always had to be wary of rogue Fen’Harel agents who would make attempts on his life while he rested. The mages had it worse, though. Spirits and demons had allied with Fen’Harel, and no mage could sleep in peace for several nights to come. Vivienne had soldiered on but she had her moments of intense quiet.

_“Darling, would you so terribly mind fetching me my drink?”_

_“Any luck sleeping?” he asked and gave her the cup with the concoction she had brewed to help her body endure the lack of sleep._

_“The demons are terribly beside themselves.”_

Dorian had fared no better, but he always hid it with a smile or a clever quip.

_“If you’re going to linger in my doorway looking like a ruffled Chantry sister, I suggest singing a verse from the Canticles to make it more believable.”_

_“Did you sleep?”_

_“What, and face more of our beloved hedge apostate’s pets? They’re all so dreary! Drink with me? I was recently gifted a Nevarran bottle. 50 years, I believe. Will absolutely kill the first layer of your throat.”_

The fight had slowly killed them. It had been a battle of willpower.

Lavellan wrapped the furs tighter around himself and sought the fire near the tavern. Varric lingered there today, contemplative as he watched the sky. Lavellan plopped himself down on a vacant log and stared at the fire.

“You look like a kitten who’s been pushed into a pond,” said Varric

“How about a Dalish elf freezing his bits off?” he muttered. “And tired from trying to close a hole in the sky. And fighting off angry Chancellors.”

He chuckled. “You slept for three whole days after stabilising the Breach, Glowy. The Seeker did most of the fighting off the angry Chancellors.”

“Ah. Karma for shouting at the world’s holy saviour, then.” Lavellan leaned his head against his drawn-up knees. The warmth of the fire slowly brought life into him.

“For a holy saviour, you’re not looking very holy.” Varric sat beside him.

He meant to continue the joke, perhaps say something witty like, “I apologise, I’ll try to glow a bit brighter,” but all that came out was a soft, “I don’t want to be a holy saviour.”

Lavellan blinked at his words. Then buried his head in his knees. After all that talk of wanting to help, he was still the terrified elf from before.

“Hey,” said Varric and slung an arm over his shoulders, “I don’t blame you. That’s a lot to heap on a person in a few days.”

He lifted his head. “I’m used to being depended on, to leading, but this is…” He had been Herald, been Inquisitor, been Fen’Harel’s adversary, and finally his killer. And now… Now he had to do it all again. Or maybe not. Maybe that scared him more. The fact that he may have been given a second chance and that he’d throw it all away.

“No, you’re right. It’s all bullshit.”

Lavellan snorted. “An absolute piss of a tit.”

“A bag of druffalo dung.”

“Isn’t that pretty much the same as bullshit?”

“Agh, you’re right. The Seeker’s yelling has stunted my creativity.”

Lavellan smiled. Count on Varric to ease things.

Varric clapped him on the back. “Things should be calm enough around here for a while. Take a walk, get more sleep. Maybe eat? I don’t know but do something to relax.”

It was, of course, at that moment that a woman came up to them and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, Herald?” she asked.

Lavellan blinked at her, still drowsy. “Yes?”

“Seeker Pentaghast wishes for your presence in the Chantry.”

He gave Varric an almost accusatory look. “You summoned her,” he grumbled. Varric raised his arms up in innocence. Lavellan sighed and gave the girl a small smile. “I’ll be there, thank you.”

Standing was a struggle, especially since the fire and furs were warm and Varric was a reassuring presence beside him. Varric had coaxed him into doing activities in the past; his own little way of telling Lavellan to rest and put away the mantle of Inquisitor if only for a moment. Lavellan, fool that he was, rejected almost every time. Always too much to do, too much to see to.

There would always be too much to do. It was a matter of making time. In the end, Varric had been a friend but always at arm’s length, never close. Lavellan hadn’t allowed it. Too caught up in the duties, the struggle.

Maybe this was one thing he could change. Make more time for those he cared about.

“Thank you, Varric,” he said. “I appreciate this.”

Varric smiled. “Everyone deserves a rest every now and again. Even the holy saviours.”

“Especially the holy saviours,” Lavellan said and walked himself to the Chantry, furs and all. Cassandra would have to deal if the matter was so urgent.

She was by the door when he arrived, staring at the Inquisition banner above the door. The all-seeing eye, the sun, and the sword. Wait, weren't those the symbol of the Seekers, the Chantry, and the Templars respectively? He rubbed his eyes again. Six years and he only just realised now? He would’ve died without ever making the connection.

Well, if that was his main concern about dying, then he really was out of sorts.

Cassandra turned at his approach and appraised his appearance.

“I just woke up,” he explained, “and it’s freezing.”

“Then let’s get you inside where it’s warmer.”

The Chantry _was_ warmer, he’d give her that.

“How do you feel?" she asked. "You slept the whole day yesterday.”

“Strangely, a few minutes with Chancellor Roderick drains me of all my energy.”

She chuckled then. “A plight we share. And what of the mark?”

He examined his palm. For everybody's talk of it being marked, there were no actual physical marks there. The Anchor simply _was_. No scars, no patterns, no green lines slashed across his hand. “It’s been behaved after that dodgy first attempt at the Breach.”

Cassandra peered at him. “First attempt? You believe there will be another?”

“You don’t strike me as the type to sit idly. Neither am I. If you told me no, I’d run off to do it anyway, I suspect.”

“And how would you set out to do that?”

“I was thinking violence didn’t work so maybe I’ll try serenading it. Give it flowers. Take it to a nice beach to have a picnic,” he said.

“Ah. The Herald is humorous,” she snorted. “Come to save us all with a joke or two.”

“The Breach will seal due to the intensity of its laughs.” He smiled. “Even lauded saviours need comedic brilliance in their lives.” Otherwise they would become statutes, legends. Although Lavellan already did that anyway when he pushed away his friends’ attempts to spend time with him.

“You should speak to Varric then.”

“I did.”

“Is that why you’ve been insufferable?” She pushed the doors of the War Room open and stepped in. Even warmer here.

Seeing his three advisors once again pulled something tight within him and he couldn’t help but stare in mild wonder at their younger faces. Leliana looked the same. Perhaps she would never show signs of aging. Cullen was as stern as always but he was coiled tight, as if he would unravel if he so much as relaxed. Now that Lavellan knew to look for it, he noticed how Cullen's hands trembled when he rested them on the table, how he sweated even though the mountain air was cold. He was reaching the height of his withdrawal now, if Lavellan remembered right.

“Andaran atish’an,” Josephine welcomed.

Lavellan smiled and nodded, appreciative of the gesture. It was the only elven she knew for now, but in the past, he had taught her more phrases.

Once the introductions were out the way, Cassandra pushed forward. Straight to business as usual.

“Solas believes a second attempt will work provided the mark has more power,” said Cassandra.

“More power?” asked Cullen. “How can we make sure that it won’t hurt the Herald or any of us?”

Lavellan frowned. “Mahanon,” he said.

Cullen blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’d prefer it if you called me Mahanon. Or Glowy. Varric seems to like that one.”

Leliana tilted her head in consideration. “You disagree with being called Herald?”

“Whether I do or don’t doesn’t matter. People will run off with it and adhere to their ideal vision of what I am. I can’t control their actions, but with the people around me, I can at least remind you all that I’m just another idiot stumbling along looking for answers. So, name.” Otherwise he’d lose himself in the role of the title once again.

“Mahanon then,” amended Cullen and Lavellan smiled in approval. “As I was saying, what if perhaps we try to weaken the Breach instead of powering up an unknown mark? The Templars could weaken it so.”

“I hadn’t taken you for a speculator, Commander,” said Leliana. “Usually you slice things into submission and call it a day.”

Cullen gave her an unamused look. “Are you still petty about―”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Leliana in a tone that brooked no argument. “The rebel mages could help.”

“You’d fight fire with fire?”

“Well, the point _is_ to create a larger one.”

Cullen scowled. “Which could destroy us all.”

“While it is great to consider both,” interrupted Josephine, “we should perhaps consider them if they were _actually_ options. Neither group would even deign to give us the time of day. We have also all been denounced by the Chantry.”

“Denouncing the Left and Right Hands of the Divine,” Lavellan mused. “Interesting.”

Leliana’s eyes glimmered as she regarded him. “Who told you about that?”

He met her gaze. “I listen.” Well, no, but yes. He did listen, but he knew the information from before. It was a slip. He had to take better care.

“Either way,” said Josephine, “we’ve been declared heretics for harbouring you. Your title as the Herald of Andraste frightens them.”

It frightened him, too.

“A heavy title,” noted Cullen. “How does it feel?”

“Heavy,” he replied. “But if it lets others hope…”

“I thought you disliked it,” said Cassandra.

“I said it didn’t matter if I did or not. In the company of friends, I’d prefer to not be Herald as well, to not be put upon a pedestal. But out in the world?” He looked down and chewed on his lip. “Let them believe. The world is dark enough as it is. Whatever Herald means to those people, I hope it brings them comfort.” He gripped the edge of the table. “Do try to hit me if my head gets big.”

“Gladly,” said Cassandra.

Lavellan smiled. “Alright. So how should we get the attention of the Templars and Mages so that we can argue at length about them later? I look forward to that, by the way. I’ll bring snacks.”

Cassandra kicked his foot.

He turned to her, scandalised. “I haven’t gotten a big head yet!”

“I am extending it to hitting you when you sound too much like Varric.”

“Varric is a brilliant storyteller,” he said and Cassandra looked away, scowling. How far along Swords and Shields was she? “I’d be honoured to sound like him.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise.

“I think,” interrupted Leliana with a small smile, “I have a solution to our current problem.”

* * *

Mother Giselle would wait for them in the Hinterlands. Same as before. Cassandra went to fetch Varric, claiming that if Lavellan did it, nothing would ever get done because the two of them would keep distracting each other. Lavellan would take offence if he didn’t agree.

That meant he would be the one to ask Solas to come.

He hesitated behind the cabin beside the apothecary. The cabin across it was Solas’ and he recalled that Solas enjoyed sitting outside in quiet contemplation.

Lavellan pushed himself forward before he could second-guess, but all his mustered courage amounted to nothing because Solas wasn’t even there. He grumbled. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly continue avoiding Solas the entire time.

Well, while he was here, he may as well visit Apothecary Adan for some potions for the trip.

Snow crunched behind him.

“Ah, the Herald of Andraste.”

Lavellan stumbled, panic filling his muscles and urging them to _move, get away, get away now! The Dread Wolf has come. He is here and he will make you pay―_

Solas steadied him and Lavellan recoiled. Too fast, too suspicious. His touch was like a brand, brighter, sharper than the Anchor could ever be. Was it Lavellan's imagination or did the Well’s whispering grow louder? No, don’t be ridiculous. This Solas had no grip over the Well’s powers.

Lavellan held his marked hand to his chest in a strange, protective motion. His heart raced and he forced himself to calm.

“Fenedhis[1],” he hissed under his breath and ran his trembling hand through his hair.

Solas, thankfully, made no further movements and stayed still, watching. His stare prickled at Lavellan’s skin but it was better than― Well, it was better. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Solas so he turned away once more.

“Ir abelas,” Lavellan said. “I did it again.”

“Do I frighten you so?” Solas asked, soft, almost lost to the wind. Lavellan’s throat seized. No matter how many times he licked his lips, it stayed dry.

“No,” Lavellan answered, glancing at the ground.

“You cannot even bear to look at me.”

Lavellan closed his eyes and took a grounding breath. _Breathe,_ Josephine’s voice said in his mind. _Make the world take a moment._ Thankfully, Solas stayed quiet once more, perhaps recognising what Lavellan was attempting. It was difficult since everything within him was trembling, down to the thinnest fibres of his muscles. His mind raced with disjointed images, cluttered, tangled, all of them filled with blood. Bursting, brimming, building — flooded his throat. Lavellan drowned.

His breathing ratcheted and he gasped, forced his eyes open, and he slumped.

“No, no,” he mumbled furiously to himself. “It isn’t working.” He clutched his hands over his ears as if it would stop the memories from spilling over the lip of the bottle.

A flash of green by his periphery, a presence beside him, but no, the world was out of focus. He couldn’t be sure what it was.

“Mahanon,” the voice said. It was soothing. Lulling. And sharp. It was a point of focus and he latched onto it. “Mahanon, I’m here. Where are you?”

Where was he? He didn’t know. He said as much.

“Mahanon, is it cold where you are?”

Cold? “No… It’s…” Fire and smoke and another dance of death. He had danced them before, but he was so, so _tired_ now but if he slipped, the dance would end. He would fall. The fire was upon his back. “It’s fire.”

“No, Mahanon. There is no fire. You are in Haven, within the Inquisition’s camp. There is snow, and it is cold. Can you feel the chill upon your skin?”

Electricity. Tasted it in his mouth and paralysed him, but no it wasn’t electricity that had him paralysed. He glowed blue and the Wolf stared him down. Where had they gone so wrong?

“Mahanon, may I touch you?”

Lavellan fell further every moment and no, he’d lose himself. Hold on.

“Please,” he gasped. “I’m falling.”

“No. You are safe. I am going to hold your wrist and I will put something in your hand. It will not be dangerous. You are safe. I am here so you will be safe. Here, I am placing it upon your palm. Can you feel it?”

It was cool, solid, smooth, irregular, but it fit within his palm.

He nodded.

“What is its temperature?”

“It’s cold.”

“Very good. Its surface?”

“Smooth. It... tapers at the bottom.”

“Yes. Will you open your eyes? You will see me beside you, do not worry. My name is Solas.”

Solas. Of course. Solas. He had a melodic voice, shifting with every story he told, soft in that wondrous way when he spoke of the things he loved. Lavellan opened his eyes and there was a stone in his hand. Black, but not heavy.

“Well done,” said Solas. “What is your name?”

Lavellan swallowed, licked his lips so he could move his dried mouth. “Mahanon,” he rasped.

“Where are you now?”

The wind stung his cheeks and the tips of his ears, but it was a humid chill. The sky had patches of blue peering through the curtain of grey, threading with green the closer it approached the Breach. His breath fogged when he exhaled.

“Haven,” he said.

There was warmth around his right wrist. The one holding the rock. It was Solas’ hand, gentle yet firm, grounding. Haven. He was in Haven, the Inquisition had formed yesterday, and they were off to the Hinterlands, and he was about to ask Solas to accompany them. And he went and fucked it all up.

Lavellan rubbed his eyes. “Shit,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” said Solas firmly. “That was not within your control. I am the one who is sorry. I should have announced my presence.”

Lavellan tried for a smile but it was trembling at the edges. “I _am_ a little jumpy.”

Solas smiled back. “Only a little.” He let go of Lavellan and his wrists felt bare. Exposed. Yet safe at the same time. It made no sense. “Can you stand? Or would you prefer to retreat to somewhere safe?”

He hugged himself. “Somewhere warm.”

“Ah, this fell earlier.” Solas placed the fur over Lavellan's shoulders. Lavellan clutched it tight around him and felt a little more put-together. “As for warm, my cabin is there. It should suffice should you wish to regain your bearings. If my presence provides discomfort, I can leave you be or send someone else who you would prefer to be with you.”

It was silly, perhaps even a moment of weakness, but Lavellan said, “I’d rather you stay with me.”

Solas nodded and said nothing else. Only walked Lavellan gently to the cabin — the small and tidy cabin full of even smaller memories and faded conversations from when they'd first met. Lavellan stared at the corner seat where he used to sit as he listened to Solas' stories, and expected to feel a twisting in his heart, but there was only a strange yet grounding serenity. Maybe there still remained untainted pieces of their past.

Solas sat Lavellan down on his bed.

"Ir abelas,” Lavellan said again. “I hadn’t meant to…” His mouth twisted.

Solas pulled up a chair and sat facing Lavellan. “Was it because I surprised you?”

“I… Yes and no.”

“Was it because it was me, specifically, who surprised you?”

Lavellan’s silence was enough of an answer. Solas didn’t seem offended, only deeply troubled.

“May I ask why?”

Oh Creators, how the hell to answer _that_.

“You…” Lavellan fished in his head for answers. “There’s someone in the past who… You reminded me of them.”

“My appearance?”

“No,” he said. It wasn’t a complete lie. The guise of Fen’Harel the god was separate from Solas the mage in his head. Better he thought them separate for now. “The general stature. Although he was taller,” he joked but Solas wasn’t letting him escape through that avenue and it fell flat anyway. Lavellan realised he was still holding onto the rock.

Solas hummed in thought. “Then perhaps it is best if I leave.”

“Wait, what?”

“You are a permanent fixture of the Inquisition. I would prefer to stay and help, of course, however if I am a source of discomfort or burden for you, then perhaps it is best if I take my leave. You have a very important role. I would not wish to jeopardise it.”

“Stay,” Lavellan declared, a little too vehemently. Solas brows raised in silent surprise. Lavellan worked on stringing together a proper sentence instead of hurling one-worded answers like an uncivilised brute. “You are just as vital as I am to the Inquisition. Please stay. Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

Gods above, look at this. He was managing a conversation with Solas! Perhaps he could do this after all.

“Comparing an elven apostate to the fabled Herald of Andraste?” he asked. 

He frowned. “The Fade spat me out and I have a magical mark on my hand, yes, but that doesn’t put me above anybody. It means I have a part to play in helping restore peace and a means to do it, as do you, as does Cassandra, as does Varric and Leliana and Cullen and Josephine. Every healer, every soldier, even angry Chancellors. This Inquisition is a set of parts all working together and forming a whole.”

Solas regarded him and his words and hummed. “It is certainly an idealistic way of looking at things,” he said. “But I will have to disagree with you. Yes, we certainly all have parts to play, yet you are the biggest gear. Whether you wish it or not, you may yet shape the course of our actions.” Oh, he knew. He knew too well. “But the people have raised you. They do not take well to their heroes descending the pillars they have elevated those heroes to.”

“You’re saying they want me up there.”

“It is not a matter of want. Rather, that of necessity.”

Lavellan sighed. “It's quite lonely up there,” he murmured. “Could I come down every once in a while? Pick some flowers with them? Maybe play a round of Diamondback.”

“I am unfamiliar with the game.”

It was such a simple memory, but he still recalled it. Blackwall had told him of how swiftly Solas learned the game and promptly bested Blackwall, then made him walk back in shame across Skyhold in the nude.

His lips twitched. “You strike me as the type who picks things up quick.”

“Careful of first impressions, Herald.”

“Mahanon,” he corrected on reflex. “Call me by name. Consider it my way of descending my pillar of holy holiness to interact with the peasants.”

“Ah, yes. The peasants cherish the precious time you spend with us lowly folk.”

Lavellan snorted. This was nice. Solas was nice when he wasn’t trying to end the world.

“Do you plan on correcting every single person who calls you Herald?” asked Solas. “I assume it would put a lot of people off. Or intimidate them. It is such a personal thing, to call you by your name when they see you as someone greater. Either that, or to invoke your name will become as sacred as invoking Andraste’s.”

He would dismiss Solas, if he didn’t know of its truth.

“I know,” he murmured. “But I’d at least prefer to be known as myself with the people I'm working closely with. Nicknames are open. Varric's come up with Glowy so far. I think there’s more brewing in that scheming head of his.” Lavellan had relaxed now, less cold even if his fingers still shook. “I need to be known as something other than Herald. Otherwise…” He ran his thumb over the stone’s surface. “Otherwise I'll lose myself in it.”

“How so?”

Lavellan gave Solas a curious glance. This was strange. Usually he was the one asking Solas questions.

“I’ll become only Herald,” he said, “and lose who I am. I’ll try to be who they want me to be and forget about myself. I might become a terrible thing, fit only for legends, and forget what it is to be imperfect. To be... me. To be another flawed person blindly staggering, moving through life, just hoping to do what they think is right. The thought of it is lonely. Terrifying.”

And maybe that was what had happened to Solas. He became Fen’Harel and abandoned Solas. Forgot what Solas was and became the Dread Wolf the others feared or expected him to be. His agents saw a god; their saviour and champion. The rest of the world saw an unforgivable beast.

There was no room for Solas between deification and desolation.

But who was Solas? Another mask? Did his true name linger even further, tucked within the folds of shadow and regret?

Lavellan took another breath but it was heavy. “Apologies, we got sidetracked. I was looking for you for a reason. We’re setting out for the Hinterlands to meet with a Chantry mother. Mother Giselle, they said. I was hoping you could accompany us.”

“You do not mind my company?” he asked.

Did he? “I certainly can’t keep jumping from you and the only way to do that is to establish that you’re not a threat. If I can get familiarised to you, then…” This was tricky. “And I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? It’s a good first step.”

Solas observed the scenery outside the window, arms crossed. He glanced back at Lavellan. “Very well. I will stay. But first I would like to know how I can help minimise the risks of sending you into visions of the past.”

“Announce your presence, somehow. I think that would help greatly.” Solas nodded. “And… I suppose, tell me if you plan to touch me. At least, until I grow comfortable with it. Also, thank you. For earlier. I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“No. You required assistance and I was glad I could provide it.” It was silent for a few breaths. They weren’t strangers so it wasn’t discomfiting, but they weren't familiar enough with each other for it to be comfortable; they were stuck in the middle.

Solas pursed his lips. “This person who you said I vaguely resemble… Am I permitted to ask about them?”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

That made him smile. “Yes. It has led to good things. Others bad. But it is a part of me, I suppose. You do not have to answer.”

Lavellan traced the stone with his nails, turning the question over as he searched for an answer. He looked up and forced himself to look Solas in the eye.

“I killed him,” he said.

Solas had a brilliant impassive expression. “May I ask why?”

It was an easy thing to say, as if the words were sweet wine slipping down his throat. It began snowing outside. There was something serene about falling snow.

“He killed me.”

Silence. Solas may take that however he wanted to, but that was all Lavellan would give.

He certainly hadn’t expected Solas to answer.

“Then perhaps he has given rise to someone stronger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you he was five seconds away from turning Solas into an omelette or crying in his arms.
> 
> Lavellan thinks he can run from his problems using humour. 
> 
> He's absolutely wrong.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Fenedhis:** Wolf dick - A common elven curse [⇧]


	5. These lands are broken

_and peace is not your refuge―_

* * *

The journey to the Hinterlands would take the better half of the day so they set out at dawn the next morning in the hopes that they would arrive just past noon.

Cassandra claimed that the carriage would be too claustrophobic and decided to go on horseback but Lavellan suspected she just didn’t want to be stuck with Varric for all that time. Not that it worked. Varric sat beside the carriage driver and annoyed Cassandra anyway.

Lavellan wanted to tear his eyes out. Why must those two keep leaving him alone with Solas?

Not that it mattered in the end since Lavellan slept for most of the journey. He was beyond exhausted. Perhaps it was because he was still as sleep deprived as he had been in the past (he decided it would be the past because to call it the future would make it inevitable), and the exhaustion must have been so immense because he had no dreams.

Varric knocked on the carriage and woke him. “Rise and shine, beauties. Come out and enjoy the countryside. It’s rustic, charming, full of fighting. I think I smell the sound of despair.”

Lavellan blinked groggily and took stock of his surroundings. Solas was across him, head bowed in sleep, but he rose his head, blinked a few times, and he was back to full awareness. Lavellan grumbled. Bastard always could wake _and_ fall asleep faster.

Varric opened the door and bowed with a flourish.

Solas was the first to step out. Did he spend the entire ride sleeping, dreaming?

Warmer here than in Haven, but that may be because of the armour Harritt had outfitted him with. Daggers on his hips, bow and arrows slung across his back. Ready for the world. It was a short walk to the forward camp where Scout Lace Harding awaited, and when he saw her, his heart wrenched. She was more youthful for obvious reasons. Vibrant, cheery, less exhausted.

They had all been so tired.

“Herald of Andraste,” she greeted. “I’ve heard the stories. It’s rare to find a Dalish elf concerned about what happens to anyone else, but you’ll get no back talk here, I promise.”

“Careful,” said Varric with a chuckle. “He hates being called Herald.”

“I don’t hate it,” huffed Lavellan. He just... greatly disliked it.

“Sorry,” she said with a small, apologetic smile. “Do you want me to call you something else?”

He recalled his conversation with Solas. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. My name is Mahanon, but… Maybe I’ve been too forceful with making others call me by name. Might be too intimidating?”

“You could be named Squish and people will still be intimidated either way,” said Harding. “I’m Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service.”

Varric opened his mouth. Lavellan shot him a Look.

He closed it.

Scout Harding briefed them of the Hinterland’s state. To summarise: not great. As they headed for the crossroads (lower case c) to find Mother Giselle, Lavellan wracked his brain and tried to recall how restoring the Hinterlands had gone. But it was so long ago that it was a blur.

“We absolutely sure this isn’t a trap?” asked Varric. “Mother Giselle sounds like a name that lulls you into a false sense of security. Next thing you know, you’re dead.”

A shadow moved through the trees up a small hill.

“If that’s true,” said Lavellan and kept a subtle eye on it, glad his bow was now in his hand and not still slung across his back, “then be sure to write that down. Make it grand. Something like, ‘The Herald of Andraste made horrible choices and had rotten luck, and so he died. The end.’”

“How about,” added Cassandra, “‘The Herald of Andraste was a wise man who knew when to close his mouth’?”

“True,” he said. In his periphery, he spied a figure move in a way that hinted at a bow being drawn. “And this isn't one of those times for me to shut up.”

Lavellan moved, yanked Cassandra back just as an arrow buried itself in the ground they had been standing on. He drew, aimed, shot. Fluid and efficient. The arrow found the Templar’s throat and they fell.

Cassandra unsheathed her sword. “What the―”

He supposed it went two ways with trying to keep up a charade of normalcy.

“Shit,” said Varric and drew his crossbow. Solas’ staff flickered with flames.

Two Templars attacked, quickly eliminated.

Cassandra looked at him after as she sheathed her sword. “You knew,” she said.

“You could’ve warned us, Glowy!”

Lavellan returned an unused arrow back in the quiver. “You know where they are if you don’t startle them. Raise the alarm and you lose sight.”

Fen’Harel had tricky agents who dodged and vanished when they were noticed. Lavellan had learned to be wary, to never dismiss shifting shadows as imagination. Better paranoid than dead. He eyed Solas then but he was scanning the area for more threats.

“Impressive instincts,” noted Solas, still looking away.

Lavellan marched on ahead. “It’s hard to track down tricky beasts,” he said. “You have to learn to be smarter.”

They fought through waves of Templars and rebel mages alike and finally reached the crossroads where refugees had gathered for shelter before the fighting had trapped them.

Many glanced up at their arrival. A few looked upon them with hope, while the rest had no space for hope because worry and fear occupied what little space they could spare. Lavellan bit his lip. There were rows of makeshift tents to the side of the road, occupied by stretchers filled with the injured, and definitely not enough healers to tend to them all.

“Well, this is a lot. Let’s break this down,” he said. “Solas, how are you with healing magic?”

“You are breathing, yes?”

“Sometimes I wonder.” He nodded at the injured. “Think you could lend a hand?”

Solas was silent for a moment, before he nodded. “I believe so. If they will welcome the help of an apostate elf.”

“It’s worth a shot. I’ll come down to help after I finish speaking to Mother Giselle.” He turned to Cassandra and Varric. “Cassandra, what else do you think the refugees need help with?”

She looked towards a small hill where he spied the tops of a few tents and heard the ringing of metal. “Corporal Vale is overseeing the state of the refugees. I can speak to him.”

He nodded. “Varric can you check on individuals? Or help Solas if you know your way around wounds.”

“I think I’ll stay clear of mangled body parts for now, Glowy. I’ll talk to a few people. Get a general feel of the situation.”

With their individual tasks in mind, they set off to accomplish them. Mother Giselle was waiting for him, calm and tempered, and Lavellan kept his calm thanks to her. After her advice about dealing with the Chantry, he headed back down and jumped right into helping the injured. The medic was so understaffed that the moment “help” escaped his lips, she dumped dressings and sutures and needles on him and gesticulated in a flurry. Solas only used healing magic intermittently so he was either conserving energy or the patients didn't want to be healed with magic.

It was hectic. Dressed wounds, cleaned some, treated magic-caused injuries. Solas stayed away from those patients which Lavellan supposed was fair enough. They would only be frightened of Solas.

But more rushed in. At that point, Cassandra had returned as well as Varric. Despite his earlier claims, Varric still came and helped with what he could even if it was just wrapping the dressings. Cassandra held down those who thrashed and needed to have arrows removed.

Eventually, they received a reprieve. The medic thanked them profusely for their help.

“I’m afraid the situation won’t get any better so long as there’s fighting,” she said.

“The fighting at the King’s Road is the centre of it,” said Varric. “Unfortunately, that’s a major road.”

Lavellan would rub his face but his hands were bloodstained. They went off to clean themselves up and reconvened.

“So, what’s happening?” he asked.

Cassandra sighed. “A lot.”

* * *

Varric huffed with every step. “I hate hills,” he said. “Dwarves have short legs! How do you expect us to keep up with the slopes?”

“By complaining less,” grumbled Cassandra.

Lavellan ascended the hill leading to the camp they had set up near the lake. It was almost night.

Varric all but collapsed when they arrived. “I’ve never done that much walking in my life."

“Yet you were not the barefoot one,” said Solas.

He snorted. “That’s not my fault.”

“Sorry,” said Lavellan. His feet also ached and fighting Templars and mages had been tedious and exhausting.

They had spent a whole two weeks in the Hinterlands ensuring the refugees were well-provided for. Hunted rams for meat and pelt, cleared the strongholds of the rogue Templars and mages, scoured the Hinterlands for caches and rifts, gathered supplies, trained recruits, helped the locals and refugees alike, rescued scouts, and everything in between. That had taken them well into the end of the month.

But the crossroads were safer and so was most of the area. It was good progress.

“The Herald of Andraste has a bleeding heart for the people,” said Varric. “The readers will love that. I’m including the part where your dagger accidentally snagged that Templar’s smallclothes.”

“How about the part where you fell off a broken bridge?” Cassandra asked Varric. “That was my favourite part.”

Varric scowled.

Solas situated himself slightly away from them, furthest from the fire. He'd always done that. Before, Lavellan had chalked it up to Solas desiring his own space and never thought much of it. Now he knew. Solas didn’t want to be closer. To be closer was to acknowledge that they were real, that the world he would plan to destroy held real people and not the featureless shadows of an ancient time.

“It’s not just that,” Lavellan said. “Would you say the Chantry cares for the people, Seeker?”

“Of course. We spread the Maker’s love just as freely as his word. Turning away those in need goes against everything the Chant of Light stands for.”

“I had assumed the Chant of Light stood for promoting the fear of magic and the condescension of non-humans,” Solas said dryly.

Oh boy.

Cassandra frowned at him. “It is true, the Chantry often faults. For all its teachings, its followers are still flawed, however it is still a place of hope for many. And protection.”

“Yes. Protecting humans from the dangerous others who worship their own gods and their own beliefs for it is clearly the wrong way to believe. It is almost as if they haven’t been surviving just fine without the Chant for thousands of years.”

“Have I offended you in some way, Solas?”

“Not you. Only the tenets upon which your faith is founded,” he replied curtly.

She gave him a steady stare. “I will not apologise for what I believe.”

“No,” said Solas. “And it was not your apology I sought, Seeker.”

“What then?”

Solas paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Nothing, perhaps.”

Lavellan busied himself with wiping his daggers and unstringing his bow. The fire crackled and the small waterfall beside the camp rushed.

“Well!” said Varric. “It’s always nice to air out some grievances. Clear the air. Good bonding experience. Glowy, what were you about to say?”

He glanced up at Varric who begged him with his smile to uplift the awkward and tense atmosphere.

“I was going to say,” he started, “that helping all these people also helps us. If Mother Giselle wants us to lobby for Chantry support, then it can’t hurt that we have the people backing us up. If they spread word about us or call for the Chantry to give the Inquisition a chance, the Chantry will look foolish or otherwise uncaring if they ignore this. Thus losing the faith of the people.”

Solas made a soft noise in his corner. “Ah. Perhaps his bleeding heart is a veneer.”

“My bleeding heart is very much bleeding. I just make sure the blood doesn’t go to waste.” Lavellan leaned back on his hands — _hands_ , he still couldn’t get used to it — and chewed on his lip. “I care about those caught in the middle but my blind idealism could hurt them too.”

“Complexity of character,” Varric mused. “Is the Herald a champion of the people or a scheming manipulator?”

“Let's go with a Herald that’s trying to do the right thing while managing the pit of vipers.”

“Not all hissing snakes prove venomous,” said Solas.

“No, but they can certainly bite.”

“They are frightened,” said Cassandra. “But let us hope they will be reasonable.”

Oh, Lavellan highly doubted that.

* * *

Sleep wouldn't arrive. Lavellan stared at the canvas of the tent, unimpressed, the rushing water of the nearby waterfall mixing with the whispers of the Well. It had been like this for an entire week, the novelty of exhaustion having worn off.

He made a mess of his bedroll before he gave up on sleep altogether and crept out of the tent, careful not to wake anybody, and sat on the edge of the hill overlooking the King’s Road. The gibbous moon was brilliant in the dark. Lavellan gripped the stone in his palms. It was the same stone Solas had given to ground him in Haven and he wasn’t sure why he still carried it.

It did soothe him though. Perhaps that was why.

They would leave for Val Royeaux soon. They just had to take care of a few more things before leaving so that the refugees would remain safe while they were away.

Soft footfalls behind him.

Too heavy to be Solas, too much intermittent time between each step to be Varric’s. Cassandra then. He was proven right when she sat beside him. They observed the scenery for a moment before Cassandra broke it with a sigh.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“No. I keep thinking. And you?”

“Not sleepy.”

He flipped the stone in his hands. They returned to the silence and he watched the stars, searching for constellations.

“Did I do the right thing?” Cassandra murmured. Lavellan paused his fiddling and angled his head towards her to show he was listening. “What I have set in motion could destroy everything I have revered my whole life. Will history remember me as a madwoman and a fool? Worse still, will they be correct?” She bowed her head. “I am sorry. It is late and there are doubts. You are burdened enough without my adding to it.”

Lavellan shook his head. “No. It’s alright. And it’s completely understandable that you have doubts. Things had to be done, and you had the determination to pull forward and do them regardless of what others tell you. It’s admirable.”

Cassandra smiled. “And foolish?”

“Maybe a little. But where would we be without the fools who dared to make change?” He drew his legs up and crossed them. “Besides, we can help. There's no use complaining about something when you know you can be the change you want to see.”

“I agree,” she said. He knew she would. He gripped the stone tighter. Maybe Varric was right; it was manipulative, and perhaps even selfish, to want to gain Cassandra’s approval and knowing how to. She studied him. “You seem to be taking this all in stride. How can you be so calm?”

He was not. He really, really was not.

“The key is to do all the panicking inside,” he joked and laughed softly, but it was quick to fade. The stone had warmed in his left hand. “I’m... coping. As best as I can.”

“I know I make for a poor conversational partner, but should you ever require my help, know that I will do my best to provide it.”

He smiled at her. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Truly.”

They shared another silence, but the night had a way of dulling the corners of awkward silences until they softened into something companionable. Almost familiar. He found himself missing Cassandra. She was beside him, yes, but it wasn’t quite the same. Was this how Solas felt? Missed something that was in front of him yet knowing it wasn’t the same, that it was changed?

“I wanted to say you’ve done well this past week,” she said. “You are a natural leader. You handled the situation within the Hinterlands well.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s natural. I had to learn.” Being the Warleader for four years then Inquisitor for another six was enough to drill leadership into him. “I’m sorry, have I been bossy?”

“If you were, I would not have hesitated to let you know.”

He grinned. True enough.

“You’ve held a position of leadership before?” she asked.

“Yes. I was the Warleader of my clan. Since I was twenty.” A little twist of the truth, but it wasn’t like he could tell her he had been the Inquisitor when the Inquisition had only been reborn a week ago. “So I’m used to directing others and giving them tasks.”

“I will admit, I do not know much about the Dalish. What is a Warleader?”

“Well, how it sounds. In times of strife when they’re called to battle, the Warleader commands the fighters. Otherwise, they lead hunts. The Dalish are reclusive so I’m not surprised that you don’t know much about them. It’s for that exact purpose that they’re reclusive.”

“Oh, I apologise. Am I asking too much?”

“No, it’s fine. Some clans like mine are more involved with humans than others so we don’t mind. We trade often with a few towns that we pass.”

“Do you miss them?”

He stretched one leg out and pulled one closer to his chest so he could rest his cheek on it. “I miss my sister,” he said. “I miss the hunters I work with.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. Ellana. She seems nice, but don’t be fooled. She’s worse than me.”

Cassandra chuckled. “I cannot say I’m surprised.” He feigned offence. “Do you wish to go back?”

Lavellan considered that for a moment. “I miss them, yes, and I would do anything to keep them safe and well… But would I go back? Yes, but not to stay.” He had been Inquisitor for too long. He enjoyed travelling, of being in one corner of the map at the start of the day and another corner by the end. His clan travelled, yes, but in predictable areas. Areas where they could hide and hunt. You would not find a Dalish clan in the middle of a desert or the far reaches of the coast.

Certainly not in the middle of court in Tevinter.

She yawned and blinked as if that surprised her. He snorted.

“Get some sleep, Seeker.”

Her face soured. “Don’t call me Seeker. You really do sound too much like Varric.”

“Cassie. Sandra. Sand. Sandie.”

“Ugh.” She gave his knee a soft whack and stood, dusting herself off. “You should rest too,” she said. “We should set off for Val Royeaux soon.”

“Yeah, I just want to make sure that the refugees will be alright while we’re gone before we head off.”

She nodded and turned to walk back, but she paused, and turned to face him again. “You said… I’m still not entirely sure what your opinions are on being the Herald.”

Lavellan met her gaze. “I personally don’t feel chosen,” he said. “However, I won’t take that hope away from other people.”

Cassandra looked down in thought. “So you do not believe in the Maker?”

He had seen the rise of two would-be gods. Or a would-be god and an actual god, depending on who you asked. Either way, he’d had enough of gods for now.

“I believe in a better world,” he finally settled on, “Maker or no.”

She stared at him but he was back to running his thumb over the stone in his hand. What would she say to that?

“A better world,” she murmured, then nodded to herself. Whatever conclusion she arrived at, she didn’t deign to inform him. She didn’t look upset though so that was a plus. Cassandra directed her next nod at him, a soft smile on her lips, but he wasn’t sure if that was a trick of the shadows. “Goodnight, Mahanon. Try to sleep soon.”

“I’ll try.”

In the end, he stayed on that cliff until the stirrings of dawn, stone in hand and eyes on the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I love the character arc Cassandra went through. It's not often talked about, I don't think. She began with rigid views about the world, that everything had a clear cut line. Then she doubted her faith, her Order, and came out of it stronger, wanting to change things for the better. She's become more empathetic with a more nuanced view of the world. She really is admirable. In this household, we stan Cassandra Pentaghast.


	6. Hear the bell's tolls

_here the faith falls―_

* * *

Val Royeaux was beautiful, he wouldn’t disagree. With its spires and hanging ribbons and large stone arches, it was a city that awed with its splendour and size even if a funereal atmosphere hung in the air due in part to today being All Soul’s Day. They were mourning the dead, mourning Divine Justinia. The city had gathered themselves, a testament to human faith. Beyond that, it reflected Orlais’ might and opulence.

And reminded him that he was awfully, terribly small. That he was an _elf_ and that he did not belong here, and that the only time he would belong was if he bowed and broke.

Things had changed somewhat after Briala and Celene had reconciled.

Lavellan scowled, mood darkening.

That had been his mistake. He hadn't known the history between Briala and Celene and if he had… Well. He was not making the same mistake this time.

The change from Celene’s happiness then hadn't lasted long. Not that it had mattered in the end. The elves of Orlais had divided between Solas and Briala (and by extension, Lavellan) and caused all sorts of chaos. Most of Briala’s agents had defected to Solas. Lavellan was sure that if it had gone on any longer, Briala would have sided with Solas too.

Like he said, it had become a battle of will.

“Such a frightening expression,” Solas remarked beside him. Lavellan didn’t even spare a glance at the woman who ran from them in fright. “What has placed it there?”

Lavellan smiled sharply. “I am an elf in the city of a nation who makes it a practice to oppress, demean, and marginalise our people. Tell me, Solas, what do you suppose placed this expression upon my face?”

Solas looked away. “Our people,” he echoed. “You use that phrase so casually. It should mean more…but the Dalish have forgotten that.”

Lavellan pressed his lips in his displeasure. “Problem with the Dalish, Solas?”

Wait, why did he even ask? What was the point? He already knew the bloody damn answer and it wasn’t as if Solas’ answer or stance would change six years in the damn _past_.

“Besides their arrogance in their belief that they are the best preservers of their culture even as they pass down mangled and misheard stories? Quite plenty.”

They stared one another down. The stirrings of an argument brewed in the air, like a crackle in the air before a lightning storm.

It was disrupted by a scout running up to meet them and relaying the chaos unfurling within Val Royeaux.

Lavellan pretended that the new information had completely distracted him, but the bitterness still churned and lingered in his veins. And if he gave it enough thought, sadness. Which was why he didn’t give it enough thought.

The angered crowd and the Revered Mother’s hurled accusations didn't put him in a better mood. By the time the Lord Seeker and his Templars appeared, Lavellan was ready to grab the man’s head so he could smash it over his knee. Let the Envy demon enjoy that. Cassandra’s pleas to the Lord Seeker went unheard, as usual, while Solas remained quiet. But Solas had a way of making his quiet heard and it worsened Lavellan's irritation.

“Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?” Cassandra asked, distressed and wrought.

No, merely disillusioned. If she meant the Envy demon, then yes, absolutely.

They walked past the gallows and Lavellan eyed it. This was where he could have easily ended up, dangling with a noose around his neck.

An arrow whistled in front of him, splintered a beam of the gallow’s scaffolding. A red ribbon fluttered, tied around the message on the shaft.

Some of his dark mood vanished and he hurriedly unwrapped it. It was a note and a map. The note was as cryptic as always, dashed with that particular brand of Sera. Phalluses had been doodled in the margins as well as the little angry faces over areas too far from the clues.

Cassandra peered over his shoulder and made a face.

“What is it?” asked Varric.

Lavellan waved the map, grinning. “A treasure hunt,” he said.

Varric hummed, face in another scheming look. “Right, so next time you and Chuckles get into a fight, I’ll give you treasure maps to cheer you up.”

“We weren’t fighting,” Lavellan muttered.

“No,” Solas agreed.

Varric shrugged. “If you say so.”

Lavellan gave Solas a cursory glance before he pocketed the note. His companions stayed at a café while Lavellan trudged around the city for the clues. Those who weren’t present during the Revered Mother’s speech gave him an odd look when they spotted him, but those odd looks were quick to shift to fear, shock, or scandal once they recognised him.

He ignored them and returned to his companions so he could piece the clues together.

“So let me get this straight,” said Varric once Lavellan finished. “She wants us to go to an alley. At sundown. With no explanation besides the promise that she’s a friend.”

“Friend,” Lavellan emphasised. “Capital letter.” He looked at the purpling sky. Almost night.

A man approached their table, his garb typical of a Circle mage.

“Excuse me,” the mage said once he reached them, “are you the Inquisition?”

“We are,” said Cassandra. “What business might you have with us?”

The mage took out an envelope. Lavellan smelled the familiar perfume on the paper and resisted a wry smile. Yes, that was Vivienne’s alright.

“An invitation,” he said.

Lavellan took the envelope and gave the man a nod of clear dismissal. “Thank you.” He put the envelope down and stared at it. It was so incongruous beside the red objects from Red Jenny, which was pretty symbolic of Vivienne and Sera's dynamic, and he couldn't help but laugh.

He opened the envelope and read the invitation.

“Party,” he said and placed it on the table for his companions to read. “Madame de Fer.”

Varric raised a brow at him. “So you’re thrilled about random strangers inviting you to strange alleys but unhappy about a noble inviting you to their estate for a lavish party?”

“It’s not that I’m unhappy.” Lavellan hid his grimace. Vivienne was… Vivienne had a brand of cutthroat that always had him vaguely uncomfortable. It wasn’t dislike, not exactly. More... unease. He was pretty sure Vivienne knew and enjoyed it. Still, he respected her. He'd learnt a lot from her.

He shook his head. “They’re both tonight,” he said. “But the party goes for the whole night. I’m sure we can turn up later. Fashionably so.”

“So scary alley first, then party later?” Varric asked.

“The party appears to be lavish and we are not dressed for the occasion,” said Solas. He was using _that_ tone. It was mocking beneath, too subtle to be caught unless one paid attention and Lavellan was sure Solas was insulting him. Somehow. Lavellan hated that tone. Too haughty. “And there is one invitation. There are four of us.”

“Well then,” Lavellan grinned at Solas, made sure to show too much teeth. “We best get you a wig! The powdered one, with the fruit in them. How does that sound?”

Solas’ brow twitched.

Lavellan continued, “And we are the Inquisition. One invitation for a group. This does not mention me by name.” He shrugged.

“On the subject of hair, Herald—" The title was deliberate. Lavellan could feel it— “Perhaps you should follow my example. I hear the nobles don’t take kindly to parasites within their hair.”

“Why Solas, my apologies. I hadn’t realised you lost your hair to fleas.” Lavellan leaned back in his seat, smiled airily in challenge as he held Solas’ gaze. Solas looked as impassive as he usually did, but his eyes glinted, a little of the wolf peering through. Lavellan was being petty, but this was better than him jostling Solas around and screaming at him and slamming him into furniture. 

“Do you play chess, Herald?” Solas asked unexpectedly. That startled the smile off Lavellan’s face.

“What?”

“Chess.”

Interesting subject change. “Yes, I do. Why?” Cullen had played with him often after the Exalted Council. To take his mind off things. Lavellan had been too subdued and sore and hurting to decline. He'd later come to enjoy those times and cherished them, and when he came to Tevinter, he had roped Dorian into a few games too. They both needed it. The Chess Club for Boys Betrayed by Their Lovers.

Solas said, with a glint still in his eye, “Would you care for a game some time?”

What in the All-Father's fiery backside was going on in that head of his?

“Alright,” he acquiesced, cautious.

“Excellent. Night has fallen. Shall we go to meet this Friend of yours?”

Lavellan could only stare in befuddlement as Varric and Cassandra exchanged a look of even greater confusion. As they went to meet Sera, Lavellan felt like he had lost. Somehow. 

They didn't make it far past the gate before―

“If I might have a moment of your time?”

They turned. Grand Enchanter Fiona smiled at them and the confusion became foreboding. He would appreciate if this day settled on one mood.

“Today is not a good day,” he sighed to himself.

* * *

Lavellan dodged the fireball that a preening noble had hurled at him. He watched it burn the wood of the door with disinterest.

Today was _not_ a good day.

“Just say _what_ ,” said a voice which slightly uplifted today and the preening noble went down choking on his own blood.

Amidst all this excitement about seeing Sera again, he'd forgotten a crucial, important detail.

“And,” she drawled, distaste evident in her tone once she finally looked at him, “you’re an elf. Hope you’re not... too elfy.”

Varric made a strange noise behind him.

Today was back to _not being fantastic, thank you_.

He knew it was her upbringing, knew the reasons, but knowing didn't stop it from hurting. Lavellan did his best to smile.

“You’re going to have to give me an example of what you consider elfy,” he said.

“You know. All pinched in the butts and crammed in the age of elven glory or some such what.”

“Well, butt’s not pinched. At least I hope not. Crammed in the age of elven glory? Only a healthy amount, don’t worry.” 

“I don’t think your healthy and mine’re the same.”

“No,” he agreed softly, “probably not. You’re Red Jenny?”

The subject change perked her right up. They settled the terms of their arrangement and off she went vaulting atop the roofs with a giggle. He watched her go. Sera was the youngest of their ragtag group, and so, he had unknowingly felt somewhat protective of her and had sometimes let himself be dragged off to her pranks. Six years had matured her so he had forgotten the vehemence of her hatred against elves when she'd been younger. In those six years, he had come to see her like a younger sister. Another one.

That was what he missed. The late nights trading stories, giggling and cackling, pies in their faces, the messy baking.

“So that was the Friend,” said Solas and Lavellan scowled. He was absolutely beside himself with smugness. “An elf who hates her own people. Ah, but I suppose she wouldn’t consider them her people, would she?”

Deep breaths.

“We have a party to get to,” was all he said and walked.

Ignored the crushing press of loneliness.

* * *

The looks they drew when they entered the estate gave him momentary joy, but the joy in his life seemed to have a pattern and so of course, that joy disappeared quick.

He managed to greet a pair of nobles before one brat came snivelling down the steps, spitting on him and the Inquisition, the distaste evident in his eyes behind the mask.

“They expect to be taken seriously when they hail a knife-ear as our saviour? Pig shit,” he said, his face leering over Lavellan. _Count back from ten._ “How will you save us, oh Herald? Will you wipe the floor and offer to cockwarm the Breach?” _Nine, eight_. Cassandra tensed behind him and took a step forward, eyes blazing, ready to argue, but Lavellan held her back. “And look at their ranks!” He flourished his arms at his companions. “A criminal, some kind of homeless elf, and a crazed Seeker? The world has gone mad!”

Fuck it.

Lavellan grinned, bared his teeth, made it feral. He knew it would make his vallaslin shift. The man may have been wearing a mask but Lavellan had no need to see his expression. His unease was rolling off him in waves.

“Such high praises you sing for us and yet I have none for you in return,” he said and took a step forward. The idiot took one back. Lavellan offered his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

He slapped the offered hand away.

“Don’t touch me, murderer!”

Ah, to decline such a courteous gesture was social suicide. This boy would not survive the Game. He was a fallen deer. An old and injured prey in a hunt.

“If you are a man of honour, you will answer to the crime of the Divine’s murder and step outside to face the charges!”

“My lord, I am but a simple _knife-ear_ ,” he taunted.

The man went for the sword on his back. A snap echoed in the chamber and the man froze in place, covered by a thin sheet of magic and ice.

Madame de Fer had arrived.

Today was not a good day.

Still, he could admire how she destroyed the man’s ― Alphonse’s ― social standing by the time she'd descended the stairs. She turned to Lavellan.

“My lord, you are the wounded party in this affair. How would you like to deal with this foolish boy?”

Lavellan eyed him. A pathetic man.

“I defer to you. You know him better.”

She nodded then destroyed not just his social standing but also his personal dignity. He was out the salon before anybody could miss him.

“I’m so pleased you could make it, darling,” said Vivienne. Her eyes travelled to his companions. “And you’ve brought guests! I hope the salon is to their liking.”

“Could do with less people belittling us,” mumbled Varric.

Vivienne heard though. “I am shamed that my guests have had to endure such treatment. If you would like to take further actions against Marquis Alphonse, you need only ask and it shall be done.” She finally focused on Lavellan. “Now then, shall we talk?”

* * *

Of course he accepted her. It would be stupid not to.

He reunited with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. The moment he returned, Cassandra shoved a plate filled with… food, he assumed, at him. They looked too pretty to be food.

“You have not eaten today. Eat,” she ordered. He took the plate, bewildered. “Today has been a long day for you.”

Lavellan hid his wince by biting into the pastry. He hoped it was pastry. It was indeed pastry, filled with something savoury.

“All in a day’s work,” he said after he chewed. “You three look like you’ve socialised well.”

“They keep tittering,” grumbled Varric. “They make me feel itchy.”

Lavellan eyed Solas who was quiet, observing. He had enjoyed the atmosphere of the court and the Game, hadn’t he? Lavellan examined his surroundings. He also had more fun than he had expected during the Game. Could have done with less murders and less assassination plots, but he'd enjoyed it. Josie and Leliana couldn’t stop smiling at him when he'd admitted it but Cullen had been more disgruntled.

_“Maker, that place made me want to set myself on fire.”_

“Madame de Fer has offered her services to the Inquisition,” he told them and Cassandra nodded.

“She is certainly influential and has many connections within the Orlesian court, I believe.”

“So where to now?” asked Varric.

“She offered us rooms if we want to stay the night,” he said.

“ _Do_ we want to stay?” Solas asked.

Lavellan looked down at his plate. “I’m finishing these tiny cube things and then we’re out.”

This day was the absolute fucking worst.

* * *

They agreed on an inn by the outskirts of Val Royeaux near the docks before retreating to their rooms. Lavellan fell face first onto the bed with a groan.

His heart ached. This was new. He hadn’t felt this in a while, or at least, not this kind.

He rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

Lonely.

Orlais was not kind, certainly not to elves, and the two elves in his inner circle didn’t even consider themselves a part of the modern elves so technically, he was still alone.

Lavellan curled up. He missed his clan and his hunters even if they spent too much time talking shit about shemlens. Missed the soothing rumble of the aravels as they travelled, missed the dances and the songs by the bonfire and the quiet moments where he'd whittle away while Ellana studied beside him. It was a simple, albeit laborious life, but it was home.

He was exhausted but sleep was far from reach tonight too.

After he tired of counting the specks in the ceiling, he got up and left the inn, walking down to the docks. He perched himself on the parapet and watched the waves, the moonlight coating the surface silver. The smooth stone was in his hand again. He considered it. Then the water. He could throw it away since he _was_ still angry at Solas.

But…

Lavellan sulked and pocketed it again. No, that would be short-lived joy and he’d end up looking for it later.

The placid night fell upon his shoulders like a lucent coat and Lavellan closed his eyes, joining the night in its serenity. He hummed his mother’s lullaby to himself. A fragment of home.

A peculiar sound approached. Wood knocking against wood.

He stopped humming and turned. Solas was there, leaning against his staff, and Lavellan’s gaze fell on the new additions to it: three small blocks of wood dangling on strings. They knocked against each other when he moved the staff.

“Solas,” he greeted. “What…?”

“Did the sound alarm you?” he asked.

Did he mean the wood? “No. I just thought it peculiar, is all. Uh, what are they? For your casting?”

“No. They are simply ornamental. I had acquired the wood from a carpenter at the Hinterlands and procured the twine from a shop nearby.” He walked closer to Lavellan, the blocks knocking. “Should you ever hear this sound, know that it is only me and that there is no cause for alarm. Hopefully, I do not distress you as I did before.”

Understanding dawned on him. Oh. Some of his anger at Solas vanished at the thoughtful gesture.

Only some.

“Thank you,” he said. “But wouldn’t it get in the way of casting?”

Solas blinked. “Oh. I... had not considered that.”

Lavellan smiled. It was endearing sometimes what Solas tended to forget. He held his hand out. “I have an idea. May I?”

Solas passed the staff to him and it felt a little like a truce.

“Do you have any twine left?”

“Yes.” Solas gave it and sat beside him as he worked. He secured the twine to the staff then gathered the wood and wrapped them together with the shaft. He knotted it so that it was secure yet quick to remove. “There. We use this knot to tie the halla to branches if we need to leave them someplace for a while. Obviously, this is much smaller but the principle is the same. I’ll have to show you how to make the knot though. Do you learn by watching?”

“Yes,” he said. “And doing.”

“Alright. Here.” He demonstrated it to Solas and passed it along. Solas got it right immediately. Lavellan huffed out a soft, impressed noise. “Are you sure you don’t already know this knot?”

“I have tied knots before but not this particular one.”

He really shouldn’t be surprised. “It seems my hunch was correct. You do pick things up quickly.”

Solas stood and swung his staff violently, but the knot remained and the blocks didn’t obstruct the casting. Solas pulled on the loose end and the blocks fell, knocking against each other.

“Most impressive,” he said to Lavellan.

He smiled and looked away. Couldn’t bear it otherwise. He had to be fighting Solas, otherwise he would succumb to missing him.

Lavellan thought that was it and he would leave, that he just wanted to show Lavellan the wooden blocks, but Solas sat beside him once more and leaned the staff against the parapet. Lavellan’s throat seized and his heart pounded. Solas kept sending him glances, gauging his reactions. Quite possible that he was attempting to normalise his presence to Lavellan.

“I thought you were angry at me,” said Lavellan.

“I... suppose I was.” He sounded surprised.

“Today has been shit,” Lavellan mumbled and drew his knees up to his chin. He recalled Sera’s disdain, Alphonse’s comments, and Solas’ dismissal, and warmth pricked behind his eyes. Lavellan drew himself tighter. Creators, he didn’t want to cry in front of Solas _again,_ but the loneliness had arrived. It ate at him. Chafed his careful control.

“ _Were_ we fighting?” Lavellan asked.

“On the verge of it,” said Solas. “Instead we tested each other. Like a child pulling the other’s hair, seeing who would scream first.”

Lavellan snorted.

The boats creaked as they rocked with the waves.

Lavellan clutched at the fabric of his tunic. “I can't guarantee that it won’t be a sore subject later,” he said.

Solas scowled and his lips pursed and Lavellan knew what that meant. It was an expression he had familiarised himself with because it would herald the beginning of an argument. Lavellan made a disgruntled sound and shook his head.

“Not tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow we can shout. Tonight, I am tired, I am lonely, and I want to stare at the water. If you don’t mind staying, we can talk about nicer things.”

It was quiet for a few seconds. Lavellan expected Solas to get up and leave, but again, Solas surprised him.

“What do you wish to talk about?”

Lavellan stared at Solas, watched how his features softened and how his eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and turned away with a heavy heart.

“Do you have stories about the Fade?”

Solas smiled. Genuine and soft, the kind of smile which made his eyes squint. Lavellan clutched the stone tighter and listened to the lilting tales of spirits and memories, of ruins and heroes of the past, and pretended things weren't as complicated as they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so apparently Vivienne's estate is actually far from Val Royeaux and not feasibly reached within the timeframe of a night but I'm electing to ignore that.


	7. Tell me of the fragments

_woven in our faded raiments―_

* * *

The advisors greeted Lavellan and Cassandra in the War Room upon their return to Haven’s Chantry.

“How was the trip?” asked Cullen.

“Orlais’ only redeeming quality is their food,” he grumbled.

“Don’t mind him,” said Cassandra. “He is grumpy from his nap because he has not rested properly.”

“But I’m right,” he muttered and ran his hand through his hair. “In summary, the Chantry still wants nothing to do with us, we’ve recruited Madame de Fer and a member of Red Jenny, the Templars have abandoned the Chantry, and Grand Enchanter Fiona’s willing to speak to us,” he said.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the middle?” Cullen asked, bewildered.

“We recruited―”

“No! The other middle.”

“Oh. The Templars have abandoned the Chantry and the Lord Seeker is about as bad as or worse than a demon.”

Cassandra sighed beside him and expanded, relayed information in a more constructive manner.

“So we’ve received an invitation from the mages,” said Leliana and smiled. “It would be impolite to decline, no?”

“It could be a trap,” said Cullen. “We've no reason to trust them.”

“Nor they us,” said Lavellan. “It was a gamble for the Grand Enchanter to seek us out. But I’ve wondered… Couldn’t we get both groups?”

Leliana’s lips curled. “You would strive to have them both? Most ambitious.”

Dorian had once mentioned that he'd apprenticed for a magister who had experimented with time magic. It could be worth looking into. Might also give Lavellan an idea of just what the hell had happened to him.

“There is the problem of their... reception of one another,” said Josephine, scratching away at something on her board and frowning at it. “Gathering the two opposing factions of a rebellion under one roof does not seem wise.”

“Ignoring the literal hole into the Fade in the sky does not seem wise,” he fired back. “Cullen's right. I’m uncomfortable with more power being poured into the mark, but we'll need the mages after the Breach is closed. Whoever created it and murdered the Divine is still out there. If we succeed in closing the Breach, what then?” He chewed on his bottom lip. “Anyone mad enough to throw the world into chaos and expect to get away with it is mad enough to come after whoever meddles with their plans. Sealing the Breach isn't the end result; it’s a halfway point.”

“You’re planning ahead,” said Leliana.

He nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You’ve already gotten the mages’ attention, now remains getting the Templar Order’s.”

“We should find where they are first. Are there any unoccupied fortresses or redoubts nearby that they could retreat to?” he asked. He knew, of course, so he nudged things along.

“You’re actually serious?” asked Cullen, voice rising half an octave.

“Commander, I’m _always_ serious,” said Lavellan.

Leliana patted Cullen’s hair and smiled. “Hush, the adults are speaking.” Cullen’s put-upon look was as Lavellan remembered. The same put-upon look he'd get when the dog he'd adopted during the Exalted Council refused to listen to him. A drooling Mabari who was nicknamed Dafty because he _was_ somewhat daft, though sweet and loyal.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Cassandra after they discussed how best to tackle Lavellan's suggestion.

“Absolutely not!” he chirped, but he forced cheer softened into something more genuine. “But it’s worth a shot, no? We can be the fools who ended the world together.” If not them, then Solas.

Not that Lavellan would allow it. Not while he still drew breath.

“Let us hope that doesn’t come to pass,” sighed Josephine. “Excuse me, then. I’ll work on seeing whether we can use Madame Vivienne’s connections within the Imperial Court to help us put pressure on the Templars.”

“I’ll help,” said Leliana. “Our hands will certainly be full.”

Cullen stared at the map for a beat before he heaved an impressive sigh. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do about finding their whereabouts.

Lavellan drummed his fingers on the table. “Meanwhile, there’re a few more things to do in the Hinterlands."

“Oh, before I forget!” exclaimed Josephine. She put her board down with a quick, “Wait one moment,” thrown over her shoulder as she left the War Room, then returned with a roll of paper tied with―

Lavellan perked.

Tied with a cord of halla leather. She gave it to him and he beamed.

“From my clan?” he asked and she nodded with a smile.

“Yes, it arrived yesterday.”

He unrolled the letter and a smaller roll of paper fell. He caught it. There was a stylistic flame scribbled on it and his heart warmed. Ellana’s. He read the bigger paper first.

“They’re worried you’re keeping me here against my will,” he relayed. “They just want to know I’m being treated alright.”

Leliana nodded. “I can send an agent to deliver the news as well as things they may need as a show of good faith.”

He considered this and decided, “Metal. It's expensive and we rarely come across them. Also some coin. My clan sells the things we make when we pass by towns and cities. It would be good for them to have the means to buy materials.”

“Very well,” she said.

“Oh and wait a bit. I want to send a letter back.”

They went over a few more issues and discussed how best to address them before they were left to their own devices.

He opened the Chantry doors to step foot outside and instead came face to face with the startled expression of one Cremisius Acclasi. Lavellan almost dropped his letter in alarm.

_The Chargers were in a dismal mood. Krem gripped his glass so hard that it cracked._

_Despite this, his voice was flat when he asked, “Did he say anything else? Anything at all? About us?”_

_Lavellan looked away, sore. Dorian finally fell asleep after emptying himself of all his tears and fury._

_“No,” he murmured._

_Krem scoffed and if it was a watery sound, Lavellan didn’t point it out._

_“Yeah. Guess we weren’t actually that important to him, huh? I’m an idiot.”_

Krem cleared his throat and brought Lavellan back into the present with a sinking feeling in his chest. After Bull, betrayal, the Chargers had continued their fight with Krem leading them but… none of them had been the same since.

“Excuse me, I have a message for the Inquisition but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.” He blinked at Lavellan. “Oh! You’re the Herald. Well, looks like my luck’s turned around.”

“Hello,” he greeted, throat dry. “What’s the message?”

“I’m Cremisius Acclasi,” he said. “I’m part of a mercenary group called the Bull’s Chargers. We do work mostly in Orlais and Nevarra. We received word that a group of Tevinter Mercenaries are gathered at the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers this information free of charge. Thought we’d give them a warm welcome to the South in four days’ time. If you’d like, come see us in action. We’re the best you’ll find.”

Lavellan mulled it over. Four days? “How long does it take to travel to the Coast again…?” he murmured to himself.

Krem answered anyway. “About a day if you plan to take a coach or a carriage. Maybe faster with your own horses.”

So he could give his companions today and tomorrow to rest, then set out overmorrow. He would have to ask Cullen how many horses they could spare. Otherwise, carriage again. Maybe he could shove Cassandra in with Solas and Lavellan could take the horse while Varric sat with the driver again. He didn’t want to put Sera and Solas together just yet. Or Solas with Vivienne. Lest the ground grow icicles from those two’s chilly disagreements. Vivienne wasn’t here yet though, so he had some time.

Still, the thought of seeing Bull again...

 _“Nothing personal,_ bas _.”_

Two betrayals in one week was not how Lavellan had expected that Exalted Council to go.

“Alright,” he said.

“Really?” Krem asked. “Oh, uh, I was expecting to do a lot more convincing.”

Lavellan smiled at him. “We need all the help we can get.” And because he was a masochist apparently, he said, “Tell me about your company commander.”

They way Krem’s eyes lit up with equal parts respect and fondness only served to remind him of the dead-eyed Krem in the past. Bull wasn’t just a boss to them. Bull was their world, the man who they would do anything for because he would do the same in return. At least, that was what they'd thought.

In the end, Bull had chosen his duty to the Qun over his friends.

“He’s Qunari. Those big guys with the horns. Pays well, fights well, leads from the front, and he’s smart about how he does things. He’s professional and treats us equally. But this has to be the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

Lavellan tasted the scent of gaatlok at the back of his throat. It was strange to taste a smell. But there it was.

“Is that a good sign?” he asked.

“I think so. Must think what you’re doing’s worth putting weight behind.” Krem took that moment to watch the nearby medical tent. Refugees, the injured, and the faithful poured in through the gates with every passing hour. The increasing numbers placed more weight over Lavellan’s lungs. Could there be a way to avoid burying Haven under an avalanche? “And I’m inclined to agree. If you’ll let us, we’d like to be a part of that”

“Alright, Acclasi,” he said. “We’ll come up in four days’ time.”

He nodded and grinned at Lavellan. “See you then, Herald.

Lavellan watched him go before he retreated to his cabin and read Ellana’s letter to distract himself from the unearthed memories. Three years since that incident at the Darvaarad...

He shook himself out of it and opened the letter.

> _My foolish yet beloved brother,_
> 
> _I still can't wrap my mind around what you’ve told me, but judging by recent events, I'd be an even bigger fool than you to ignore it._
> 
> _I’ve begun looking into the legends of Fen’Harel to see if I can gain insight from them (and I think I’m worrying the Keeper with all my questions about him). We may be far apart, but I’ll do what I can to help._
> 
> _Aenoreir was appointed the new Warleader. He’s got a big head but I think he does miss you. A little. I can’t tell._
> 
> _If Fen’Harel is truly guised within your ranks, then please be careful. Maybe you can use your knowledge of the future to sway or mislead him._
> 
> _Safe travels. Stay alive._
> 
> _Ellana._

Information on Fen’Harel? Lavellan looked out the window towards the direction of Solas’ cabin. Solas already had his agents but Lavellan wasn’t sure who among them were already within the Inquisition. He recalled a few faces but he couldn’t be sure. If one of Solas’ agents intercepted their correspondence, the ruse was up. Still, Ellana wouldn't be swayed because she was more stubborn than him, but he could at least tell her to be careful.

> _Lana,_
> 
> _The wolf has large ears and eyes. Watch for the bramble patch._
> 
> _Hanon._

Unexpected things lurked amidst the bramble so one must pay attention. It was a warning he'd used with his hunters.

Lavellan tied the halla leather cord around his letter and left the cabin to find Leliana. She was in her large tent just outside the Chantry, speaking with a scout.

“―kill him. Make it clean, painless if you can. We were friends, once.”

Memories of the Grand Cathedral’s tense atmosphere returned. Divine Victoria had been swift with her judgements, steel in her heart and in her hand and in her words. Lavellan and Victoria had vied to change things for their version of better even as they'd succumbed to their rage and despair and shadows. Sometimes when they looked at each other, they would see themselves reflected back ― lost and only fighting because it was all they knew. All they had left.

“What are you doing?” he asked, though it sounded more of a demand.

“He’s killed one of my best agents!” she argued. “And knows the location of the others. The longer I leave him alive, the more I shorten the lives of the rest. I condemn one man to save dozens. He must die.”

Lavellan stood his ground. “Must he?”

Leliana straightened and frowned. “Sometimes we must do things that are needed even if we do not enjoy it.”

“And how long before doing what’s right and what’s needed blur?”

She shook her head, frown deepening. “I cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this.”

“This is exactly the time for ideals." They were drawing a few looks. Lavellan eased the argumentativeness away from his tone and forced himself to relax. “The world is a dark enough place, Leliana. It needs ideals at a time like this.”

The scout in the tent with them shuffled in discomfort.

Leliana gave him another of her calculating looks and he worried for a moment that he'd overstepped, but her face softened and she huffed.

“You feel very strongly about this,” she said. She paced the tent and leaned over her table, studying the papers scattered about it. “Very well." She turned to her agent. “Apprehend Butler but see to it that he lives. I’ll find another way to deal with him.” She redirected her attention to Lavellan. “There. Is there anything else?”

Lavellan cleared his throat. “Yes, actually.” He handed her his letter. “Would it be alright if your agent could also deliver this letter to my clan? To the Keeper’s First, specifically. And, this is important, make sure it's delivered by your agent and not a raven.” Solas had agents who shapeshifted like Morrigan. They posed as Leliana’s messenger ravens and they either spied on them, intercepted messages, read the messages, or all of the above. He wasn’t sure what the extent of or how active Solas’ spy network was currently but better safe than sorry.

She accepted the letter. If she thought the request peculiar, she didn't say. “Of course. I’ll see to it,” she said. “Oh, and before you go, I also have a request. There have been no traces of the Grey Wardens lately and it has me worried. However, we’ve heard of rumours that there is one in the Hinterlands. He goes by the name of Warden Blackwall.”

Ah. Lavellan nodded. “You want me to find him when we make the trip?”

“If he is there.”

“Not a problem. I’ll see you around then.” He bowed and left, hadn’t realised his hands were shaky, and he almost laughed. Leliana was not an easy person to argue with. He almost preferred yelling at Solas. Almost.

Lavellan walked back to his cabin but stopped when he saw who just entered the gates.

Sera walked without a care for the strange looks thrown her way, marching with nothing but a pack and her bow and arrows slung over her back. Although he knew her tells of discomfort. He couldn’t say what they were since it was mostly instinctive after being around her for long enough.

He waved and got her attention and her face lit up in recognition. She rushed up the stairs, slightly out of breath.

“Heya, chosen one!” she greeted and bounced on the balls of her feet when she straightened. “Piss, I keep forgetting how tall you are.”

“I’m pretty average compared to the humans around here. There goes my poor, fragile, crushed ego.” Others stared openly now. Sera shifted, mouth pursing, discomfited under the weight of their stares. “Hey, you hungry?” he asked to distract her.

She patted her stomach. “Starving.”

“There’s a tavern nearby. Food’s good.”

She brightened at that.

* * *

“So this is it, huh?” she asked once she devoured all her food. He raised a brow, knew what would race through her mind, and braced himself for her joke. “It’s fine yeah? Just… I thought it’d be bigger.” She giggled. “Get it?”

Despite himself, he still snorted and smiled.

“It’s how it’s used, Sera. Not the size.”

Her _eww_ s were interspersed with chortles and snorts.

Lavellan shrugged, a picture of innocence. “I don’t know what’s so funny. I’m talking about the Inquisition.”

Sera grinned at him. “Here you are looking half a snit away from being framed on a wall but you’re actually a tit and a bit under all that, yeah?”

And he still didn’t know what to do when she wasn’t making any sense. In the past, all he had to say was, “Come off it, twat,” and she would re-explain herself with a half-baked but fond insult thrown his way. He couldn’t exactly say that now. She’d choke him with the string of her bow or save herself the energy and just shove an arrow into his balls.

She picked up on his confusion. “I meant, like… You look like you’d be in one of those paintings those puffed up nobles have around their house. All serious and stuffy. But you’re alright.”

“Thanks. And you look like you’d be the asshat who steals all those paintings.”

“Not like they need it. One of those shiny frames would feed four families for a week. ‘Sides, those big paintings usually hide a vault inside. That, or something right creepy.” She leaned back and patted her belly. Maryden changed her song to something cheery in the background. “Can’t do that lately though. All this fighting’s screwing up with the normal and now they’re not normal. Need it to be normal to get sovereigns flowing again. Another reason why the Templars and mages need to be sat down from their hissy fits.”

“Most people pick a side.”

“Most people are stupid. Those people are stupid. They’re busy punchin’ each other and whinging and they’re forgetting about the giant, green hole in the sky. And they’ve already screwed a whole lot of shite up even before the giant green hole.” She pulled a face. “I tried shooting at it you know? It doesn’t come down. That’s _weird_.”

“You shot an arrow at the Breach?” he asked.

“Well, yeah. Worth a shot, right?” She sniggered at her pun. “Still, they need to be sat down!”

“Sure, that sounds easy. I think we can manage that,” he said and grinned. “End the war, close the giant hole in the sky.”

She stared at him.

“The easy one first,” he amended.

“Which is?”

“Fixing the sky, obviously.”

Sera dissolved into another fit of giggles. He’d missed her laughter. Its infectious quality had held his dark moods at bay during terrible days. It also made him increasingly worried, wondering what she’d done this time and how big of a headache it would give him and Josephine. Or how loud Josephine would yell at him.

“You _are_ such a tit and a bit. A daft one too,” she said and leaned forward with a wide smile. “Most people get special, lose their snerk. Maybe I’ll like you, chosen one.”

“Maybe you already do.” He waved his fingers at her. “I’ve been told I’m charming.”

Sera scoffed and leaned back, but the corner of her lips were still pulled in a half-smile. “By who? Boring old farts?”

“You wound me, Sera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Lavellan's past life, the Qunari never reached out for an alliance so Bull's personal quest never happened. So come Trespasser, Chargers are alive, Bull not so much.


	8. The dreams are unkind

_beasts roam man’s mind―_

* * *

The cold morning air fogged his breath. Lavellan nocked an arrow, eyes on the two rams. Hunting had always been one of the things that relaxed him, that made his mind blank. Or maybe not blank. Refreshed it.

He drew. Four breaths later, both rams were down with an arrow through their ribs. He slung his bow over his back and whistled. A horse trotted to him, dragging a large tray, and he offloaded the two rams onto it. More food for Haven’s growing inhabitants. There were already four rabbits hanging on his waist so he placed them on the tray too.

He rode back to Haven with his haul and passed it on to the kitchen hands. Meat for food, pelt for armour.

The clang of metal caught his attention and he turned his head, found the new recruits training under Commander Cullen's supervision. Cullen saw him watching and nodded in greeting. Lavellan nodded back and approached.

"Hera— Mahanon," said Cullen, hastily correcting himself.

“Commander Cullen,” Lavellan returned.

“Bit early for hunting. The sun’s barely risen.”

He shrugged. Couldn’t sleep again. “I missed it,” he said instead. “How are your recruits shaping up?”

Cullen observed them for a while, then cracked a wry smile. “Miraculously better now that you've arrived.”

“Ah. Should I come more often?”

He chuckled. “Perhaps they’ll finally learn how to _use the shield in your hand! Block with it!_ ” he lectured at a soldier who started then fixed the grip on his shield. Cullen sighed. “We’ve been getting more recruits, eager to join the cause. None made quite the entrance you did.”

“It’s a talent of mine,” he said wryly. “I’m quite skilled at falling out of skies and being in the wrong place at the right time.”

“I, for one, am glad you were. Maker, we would be a giant mess otherwise.”

“Give yourself some credit. You’re doing well given your limited resources.” _And withdrawal struggles._ Lavellan scrutinised him. Cullen was pale, he saw that now after knowing how a healthy Cullen looked, and there were shadows beneath his eyes.

“Are you doing alright?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Been busy. We’ve narrowed down the places where the Templars could have regrouped at. We’ll arrive at a conclusion soon.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Lavellan said.

Steel resounded as the soldiers sparred.

“A few nightmares,” Cullen admitted with a murmur. “It’s fine.”

“How much sleep do you normally get?”

“I assume as much as you. Perhaps more depending on the night.”

Lavellan laughed but it sounded weak, even to him. “Are you implying I look like shit, Commander?”

“You look as you normally do.” Translation: _you’ve always looked like shit. In conclusion, you barely slept even before we met._ And Cullen wouldn’t be wrong. A good night’s sleep was as foreign to Lavellan as humility was to Corypheus. “You are awake when I’m awake. And I find myself often awake.”

“It’s an elven thing,” bullshitted Lavellan.

Cullen didn’t even look at him. “No it’s not.”

“A Dalish thing then.”

Cullen uncrossed his arms. “Have you tried visiting the apothecary for some sleeping elixirs?”

“Have you?”

“They didn’t work.” He quickly signed a paper presented to him by a scout, before he faced Lavellan. “But that was me. You could try, especially since you’re headed to the Coast tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Lavellan mumbled and fiddled with his gloves. Meeting Bull again while sleep-deprived may just be his undoing. “Do you think we can spare four mounts for tomorrow? After the Coast, we’re riding down to the Hinterlands. I thought it might be easier if we had our own horses.”

Cullen turned his attention towards the stables. “The forward scouts have taken most of the horses with them. I suppose four horses wouldn’t hurt though.”

Lavellan paused. “We wouldn’t happen to have a small horse, would we? Preferably one for a dwarf…?”

“I doubt it.”

Well, stuck in a carriage again it was.

* * *

Lavellan walked out of Apothecary Adan’s cabin with a week’s worth of sleeping elixirs. He wasn’t sure if they would work but he needed to be rested and alert for the following events to come.

He chewed on his lip. Obtaining help from both the mages and the Templars was a tall order, and he wasn’t sure how it would even work. And after that… Corypheus had attacked them with the Venatori and the mages. Lavellan had already begun inspecting the trebuchet within Haven and searched for the opening of the cavern he had miraculously fallen into. He had almost died on the mountains because he fell unconscious after falling in. If he knew where it was and retreated deliberately into it _without_ knocking himself out, it may lessen the distance between him and the others.

Or he could fail and die for real and wake up to do it all over again.

He also had to find a way to evacuate everyone at Haven beforehand. How would that work? Come up with some excuse like, “Yes, evacuate everyone in case the Breach blows and kills us all when I try to close it.”

But then, would that interfere with their finding of Skyhold? Corypheus could still find them (he had a fucking _dragon_ ) and then they would be vulnerable out in the open.

Lavellan mussed his hair in frustration and pulled on it while muttering a string of rapid elven curses. Why was this so hard?

Wood knocked behind him.

Solas.

He turned and found Solas walking towards him, wooden blocks on his staff swaying.

“Oh, hello,” Lavellan greeted.

“Good morning,” he returned and swayed his staff again so the blocks hit each other. “You were deep in thought and I did not want to startle you.”

“I wasn’t. Startled, I mean.”

“Good.” He leaned his staff against the wall of his cabin and walked closer to Lavellan, hands clasped behind his back, eyes trained at the sky. “The Senior Enchanter arrived earlier,” he said, serene expression pulling tight into something attempting to be polite. “She is... opinionated.”

Oh dear. “You’ve spoken already?”

“Words were not needed. She caught sight of me, and with one sweep of her gaze, made her distaste of me quite known.” Solas smiled. “I am surprised she had enough self-restraint to walk away without dragging me by the neck to a Circle.”

“I won’t let her.”

Solas turned to him then, head cocked to one side with a small frown, puzzling out something he thought fascinating. Lavellan avoided eye contact. The expression was so familiar and yet so distant, a portrait laying dusty and cobwebbed in a corner, colours faded, paint cracked. It belonged to the simpler times.

“And how would you stop her when she could easily coat you within ice?” he asked.

“We have an ex-Templar,” Lavellan offered.

“Is that supposed to make me, an apostate, feel better?”

Lavellan scrunched his face. Fair point. “Then I’ll drive Enchanter Vivienne back with terrible outfits. Perhaps one made of plaideweave…” She and Dorian had made the most appalled and distraught expression when he had jokingly presented them the gaudy, yellow fabric for their armour. Sera, of course, chose the fabric for her pants and paraded in front of them as much as she could. The next week, all of the plaideweave in Skyhold had been mysteriously dyed black.

They never found out who did it.

They also never figured out how Sera seemingly had an infinite supply of plaideweave pants.

“Ah, yes. That should suffice,” said Solas. “Truly, you are the voice of reason.”

Lavellan laughed.

* * *

He stared at the sleeping elixir, translucent and blue, and drank. Lavellan lay down and stared at the ceiling, contemplated the countless ways he could change things and how. For now, Corypheus was the dominant threat, but Solas…

He had no idea what to do about Solas.

_“If I live… I’m coming to stop you.” Brave words, but Lavellan couldn’t see past his tears from the pain. At that point, he wasn’t sure which pain was the greatest. The pain in his hand or his heart?_

_Solas took his hand, gentle, and placed a soft kiss upon his lips. “I know, my love,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I will never forget you.”_

Lavellan clutched his chest. No. Not those. He curled up on his side and tucked his left hand close to him as if he could disappear if he curled into himself enough. What was he doing? Perhaps this was the afterlife and he really did die. This was the weight of his sins, cursed to live them out again, and he could try to change all that he could but the destination would remain the same: blood and ash and bitter smiles as the world burned in the chaos.

His eyes closed.

* * *

It was a lake on the edge of the world.

The willows woke, warred, wept, and wilted. Over and over. He reached for a leaf, golden and ephemeral, turned eternal in his hand, before it rusted and fell in the waters.

The water reddened. Thickened. Viscous as it slithered up his legs in slabs, pinned him in place, and he gasped, tore the sludge off. But it only spread from his fingers. An unwanted growth. The red sludge formed hands, slick, sick, and sticking. They reached his neck, forced themselves into his mouth. He choked and struggled. They were over his head, plugging his nose, closing in on his eyes.

A black wolf stared from above a willow branch.

He reached.

His vision darkened―

* * *

Lavellan awoke and something thick clogged his throat, stopped his breath, and he thrashed, tangled himself in sludge get it off _get it off―!_

He fell off the bed and knocked his head against the floorboards.

Lavellan panted, his sweat cooling on his skin, and he flinched away from a strip of sunlight slipping in through the window and shining in his eye. He sat up. His heart pounded in his ears but there was no red sludge overtaking him. The only thing which stuck to him was his tunic because of his sweat.

He’d made a right mess of the bed though. The sheets were in a heap and mostly on the floor rather than the bed, and the pillows were somehow by the opposite wall. He either flung it in his sleep or while he was falling. Lavellan buried his face in his hands and took a moment to regain his bearings, before he got up, armoured himself, and grabbed his bow on the way out.

His hands shook the entire time.

It was just past sunrise. Most of Haven was asleep except for the ravens which flew in and out at regular intervals. Leliana was hard at work.

Steel rang against steel in the distance. Cullen’s recruits and Harritt were up too, it seemed.

Lavellan retreated to the snowy fields just across the frozen river opposite Haven and came back an hour or so later with a fresh haul of rabbits. Cullen squinted at him as he passed and Lavellan threw his head back dramatically to sigh.

“Yes, mother, I tried an elixir,” he said.

“And?”

“And I had an unnerving dream. Ergo, I will never drink it ever again.”

“Try again,” he urged. “At least three nights.”

“Don’t worry, I have experience with subsisting on minimal amounts of sleep. And see? I function alright.” He raised the three rabbits. “Hunted just fine.”

“Rabbits aren’t coming at you with swords.”

“I’d like to see that. They’d be so cute that I think I may just let them have a go at me.”

Cullen shook his breath, muttering, “Maker’s breath,” under his, well, breath. Lavellan grinned and dashed before Cullen used Lavellan’s previous comment as ammunition that he’d gone stupid from sleep-deprivation. He hadn’t. He was fine.

Lavellan delivered the rabbits to the kitchens before he readied himself for the journey to the Storm Coast.

He woke Varric and asked him to get Solas because Lavellan was a coward, then looked for Cassandra instead. She was fully geared when he found her.

“Are we leaving?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, we are. Good morning.” His gaze fell on the small rucksack in her hand. “What’s that.”

She opened the flap and revealted the translucent blue of the sleeping elixirs. “The Commander asked me to bring them.”

“Oh for―” Lavellan rubbed his face and muttered. “Alright, let’s go.”

“He is only worried about you. As am I.”

“Because I’m the only one who can seal rifts, yes, I know. I need to take care of myself. Don’t worry, I am.”

Cassandra scowled. “Yes, but we are also worried because a great deal of responsibility and burden has suddenly been thrust upon you. You may be the Herald, but you are not a mere legend who needs no rest and no food. Look after yourself. For your sake too.”

He shuffled his feet, shame burning the tips of his ears and wringing his stomach. Cassandra offered the rucksack and he took it with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Come,” she said. “Let us meet this mercenary group.”

His stomach wrung itself for an entirely different reason.

“One moment,” he said. “You go on ahead. Varric’s waiting by the gates with Solas. I’ll be right with you.”

Cassandra nodded and walked off while Lavellan sought Sera out in the tavern. No need, she was outside, pacing and tapping her feet before she saw him.

“Hey chosen one,” she greeted. “What’s with all this shifting? Heard you’re leaving.”

“Briefly. Going to meet some giant Qunari guy and his mercenary group.”

“Qunari? Those massive ones with the horns and the stuff?”

“Yup.”

She laughed to herself, a little dreamy. “I wonder what their women are like,” she wondered.

He recalled the Viddasala and a few more Qunari women they had come across during the three years they were hunting Solas down. Sera hadn't been able to form a single coherent sentence. Giant women had nothing on Dagna though.

Lavellan smiled. “Sera? Focus.”

She cleared her throat. “Right. Focused. I’ve got my focus, it’s all in there, what’s up? You need an extra hitter? ‘Cause staying here’s got me all squiggly like I got a worm down my pants and it’s wrecking up something right fierce.”

He took a moment to deconstruct that sentence. “Uh, no. But I do need you to go somewhere.”

“Oh yeah? Need something to go missing?” she asked.

“More like something found. Someone. There’s a Warden in the Hinterlands apparently. Name’s Blackwall. Leliana could give you the details, but I need you to go find him. After the Coast, we’ll ride back down to the Hinterlands and meet you there.” Sera and Blackwall had formed the unlikeliest friendship. Nobody understood it, least of all those two, but they ran with it and it shattered any beliefs Lavellan had about Blackwall being a responsible adult figure.

Sera looked down to consider that. “Sure, I suppose. What am I s’posed to say to him?”

“That the Inquisition needs to speak to him. I feel like you can be persuasive.”

“That all? Find some Warden guy, tell him to speak to you?” she asked.

“And check on the refugees too. See how they’re faring and help in any way you can.” That had her a little more agreeable.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get my stuff. See you then?”

Lavellan bid her farewell and rejoined Cassandra, Varric, and Solas who waited beside a carriage and a horse. Varric stared at him when he came over.

“Everything alright?” he asked Varric.

“You’re looking a little pale, Glowy. I’m pretty sure you were a few shades darker than this when we first met.”

Lavellan gestured pointedly at the snow, then once more at the cloudy skies. “Varric. It’s snowy. There’s barely any sun.”

“Yeah but over the course of three weeks?”

“Cassandra looks a bit paler,” Lavellan pointed out.

“The Seeker doesn’t have bruises under her eyes.”

“They really bring out my eyes.” Lavellan moved towards the horse. “I’m taking the horse this time. I want to see scenery other than snow. Is that alright?”

“Tactfully handled,” sighed Cassandra. “Yes, you may take the horse.”

“Too claustrophobic in there so I’m sitting beside the driver again,” said Varric. “This one’s called Wickham. He’s got a load of good stories, I can feel it.”

“Thank you, ser,” said Wickham.

“No, no, thank _you_.”

And so, Cassandra and Solas rode in the carriage while Lavellan rode on horseback. Wickham did have good stories, Varric was right. Lavellan found himself laughing for most of the ride and it took his mind off of meeting a certain Qunari for a while. Varric also told stories, each grander than the last.

They cleared the snow and took the Imperial Highway with intermittent stops to stretch their legs, have something to eat, and tend to the horses. Stayed at an inn for a night before continuing at daybreak.

The elixirs still didn’t help, but at least no strange dreams haunted him.

Soon, the smell of saltwater permeated the humid air while seabirds called each other in the skies. They alighted and met up with Scout Harding at the forward camp. Nearby, the Waking Sea battered the shores with the waves’ deep swells and violent churning. He recalled how seasick it made him and greened.

Scout Harding welcomed them and updated them on the current situation. The Chargers weren’t here yet, but the Inquisition forces sighted the Tevinter mercenary group and stayed back, unwilling to risk more scouts since a few of theirs had already gone missing.

He frowned. “Scouts are missing?”

“They were supposed to meet at a rendezvous point, but they haven’t come back. I’d go look myself but we don’t have many people stationed here and most of us are keeping an eye on the mercenaries.”

Lavellan nodded. “Do you have a map of where this rendezvous point is?”

After going over the map, they went in search of the scouts. He had forgotten how much he hated the Coast.

“Slopes,” grumbled Varric behind him and he was inclined to agree. Ha. Incline.

The rendezvous point had a small group of hostile parties outside and they found their scouts dead. It was a simple, if somewhat personal fight, and one of the opposition’s Mabaris rammed into Cassandra’s side. Lavellan fussed over her after and only relaxed when Solas confirmed that she was alright and nothing broke.

“It’s fine,” Cassandra said for the fiftieth time after his fiftieth nag while he looked for the instructions on how to make Mercy’s Crest so he could challenge the Blades of Hessarian's leader. The Hessarians were loyal and devout, if he remembered correctly. And their leader was an ass.

Lavellan scowled. “You say that but you’d probably get shot in the neck and you’d try to walk it off."

Solas looked on with a faint tug to his lips. “I did confirm she would be alright. Her ribs will bruise but they are not broken.”

“Not everything has to break first before they’re considered not alright.”

“A sound advice,” Solas said. “Have you considered listening to it?”

“Thank you!” sighed Cassandra.

Lavellan grumbled beneath his breath. Once he found the instructions and materials required, he walked back to camp to requisition it.

They halted on the way back, stopped by the sounds of fighting, and Lavellan’s blood fled his face. When they rushed ahead, there amidst the chaos of two mercenary groups tangled in a skirmish, was the face of an old, dead friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's sleep-deprived state is just such a Normal thing and he's just going about his day like a phone being charged to 5% then depleting to 1% and then charged back to 5 over and over. 
> 
> Not entirely happy with this chapter but if I squint at it any longer, my eyeballs are gonna roll out their sockets.
> 
> Beware the awful plaideweave and its repellent powers!


	9. The ghosts of present future

_howl beyond the stupor―_

* * *

_Breathe_.

Steel on steel, sparks from the friction, fire and gaatlok and the Darvaarad.

 _“Nothing personal,_ bas _.”_

_Bullshit, bullshit, how could this not be personal? What a laugh and a half. Lavellan was a fool ― a trusting, stupid, unlearning fool._

They stayed out of the fight and watched. Cassandra gave him a querying look at his inaction before she took a step forward. Lavellan’s hand shot out and held her back before he could think better of it.

He wracked his mind for an excuse. “It’s chaos out there,” he said, “and a massive dog slammed into you. Besides, take this as an opportunity to assess their skills. See if they’ll be a good fit for the Inquisition.” It was a marvel that he finished the sentence without throwing up what little contents his stomach held.

That pacified Cassandra. Somewhat.

The Iron Bull swung his axe, a terrible whirlwind of steel and blood, and grinned. Lavellan held himself tight and looked away, reining in his breaths and trying not to let it race.

Wood knocked against wood beside his ear.

“Breathe,” Solas whispered, low enough that only Lavellan heard it. It was hilarious. Truly hysterical. The one who betrayed him was trying to stop him from breaking down at the sight of the other one who betrayed him. Lavellan would laugh if he wasn’t busy catching his breath. Instead, he reached for the stone in his pocket, becoming familiarised with its shape and texture due to how much he sought it.

One of the mercenaries got it in their head to try and attack Lavellan’s group.

Poor sod didn’t get far. Froze and shattered, coated in Solas’ magic.

Lavellan stared at him.

_“You created a powerful organisation. As such, it suffers an inevitable fate: betrayal and corruption.”_

_“It’s not that simple.”_

_“Isn’t it?” Solas tilted his head. “Perhaps we should ask your friend, The Iron Bull. Tell me, where is he?”_

Lavellan wanted to throw up.

The Chargers made quick work of the mercenary group and it was over far too quick. The Iron Bull gave his men a few orders before he caught Lavellan’s eye and tipped his head in acknowledgement, signalling Lavellan over.

He gripped the stone tighter, gave Solas another look, before he steeled himself.

“Cassandra?” he asked because he wasn’t sure he could do it alone.

“I believe he is calling _you_.”

“Us. You founded the Inquisition. He wants in on the Inquisition, he talks to an important member.”

“You are important too.”

“Who, me? I’m just here to stop demons from tearing up the place.” He dug his nails against the stone. Before Cassandra could argue, he met up with Bull.

Bull smiled at their arrival. “So you’re with the Inquisition? Glad you could make it,” he greeted and fuck, Lavellan was not prepared enough for this.

“You are the Iron Bull, I presume?” asked Cassandra.

“Horns give it away?”

She chuckled. “And the height.”

Bull glanced at Lavellan, noticed he’d been silent. “And you’re the Herald.” It wasn’t a question.

Lavellan swallowed. “What gave it away?”

“Heard some rumours. ‘Andraste’s chosen is an elf with hair the colour of snow, of purity, of innocence, with golden eyes as bright as the sun’ and yadda yadda,” he listed dryly as if it were a requisition list and shrugged. “And all that. Got some variations in there. I made an educated guess.”

Lavellan groaned and hid his face in his hands.

Bull laughed. “Hey, on the bright side, I think you’ll be put in a song soon.”

“They’ll make it sound like I died,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, they’re like that. Why don’t we sit down, have some drinks? Talk over the terms and whether you’re willing to take us in.”

“I’ll have to decline the drinks,” said Cassandra.

“Me too,” Lavellan agreed lest he worsen the nausea.

“Alright.” They sat. Lavellan searched over his shoulder for Solas and Varric. Varric was off chatting to another dwarf, but Solas was staring at Lavellan.

Lavellan tensed and turned around. Felt cornered. A wolf lurking behind, a bull huffing and stomping in front, and nothing but a precipice on either side of him. Cassandra and Bull discussed things back and forth. Payment, arrangements, costs versus profit, but it was all muted in Lavellan’s mind and he focused on focusing instead

“Oh, and there’s one more thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.”

Fenedhis, he just had to tune in to _this_ part of the conversation?

“Know anything about the Ben-Hassrath?”

Cassandra frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Qunari law enforcers?”

“Yeah, that’d be it. But more along the lines of... spies.” Lavellan wanted to bury himself. “And I’m one of them.”

There was a steady moment of utter, blissful silence.

Then, “I beg your _pardon_?” demanded Cassandra and she stood. “No. I’m calling this off―”

And since Lavellan loathed himself apparently, he grabbed the tails of her coat and tugged. “No. Wait. Let’s hear what he has to say. Bit strange to admit you’re a spy, no?”

Bull appraised him, a quick flick of his eye, but Lavellan knew Bull had gathered about ten things about him within that short span of time. Would he realise Lavellan was two seconds away from either vomiting or throwing himself into the waters of the Waking Sea?

“I can’t hide something like that from something called the Inquisition. It’s... literally in the name.” He nodded at the sky. “Magic like the Breach is uncontrolled and we’re not liking the sound of that. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition and get close to its leaders, send reports back.”

“I am waiting for the part where I do not kill you where you stand.” Cassandra’s glower could convince canyons to shut. Lavellan was glad he'd brought her.

Bull took this in stride and chuckled good-naturedly. “All right, all right. It goes two ways. I get reports from all over Orlais. I can share them with you, and if your spymaster’s worth a damn, she’ll make good use of them.”

“She?” questioned Cassandra.

“Ah, yeah. Did research. Plus, she’s a redhead,” he sighed dreamily.

“Not helping,” muttered Cassandra. “Give us a moment.” She hauled Lavellan up and he almost tripped over his feet as she dragged him away. She gathered Solas and Varric’s attention and once they were together, she seethed, “He’s a Qunari spy!”

Varric blinked. “How’d you know?”

“He admitted it,” said Lavellan.

Varric looked in Bull’s general direction, back at Cassandra, then back to Bull. “Are Qunari spies in the habit of declaring that they’re spies? Because that seems counterintuitive.”

“The likes of the information he revealed must have a prize,” said Solas.

“He’ll be sending reports of the Inquisition back to the Ben-Hassrath,” Lavellan said.

“Is that everything?”

_Bull was dead before they could even get any answers out of him._

“I’m sure we’re headed for a betrayal somewhere down the line,” he couldn’t help but mutter. “But for now, why don’t we enjoy his company? He seems nice.”

“Nice? A spy?” asked Cassandra, voice on the verge of rising into her furious pitch.

“Spies are people too, Seeker,” said Varric.

Lavellan shrugged, put more effort into making it look casual. Could Solas please stop staring at him as if he could see through Lavellan’s farce, thank you.

“If I get stabbed in the back, or in this case, axed in the back, you may have bragging rights.”

“I don’t―” She threw her hands up. “Ugh.”

“We’ll get these Ben-Hassrath reports of his,” said Lavellan. “They’re potential connections, potential things to grow the Inquisition. The world is turned against us. We may as well accept the help of allies willing to stand with us.”

Cassandra’s ire eased. Slightly. She shook her head. “Very well. But if Leliana or the Ambassador gives you an earful, I will not come to your rescue.”

“That’s okay. Maybe I’ll create a bigger mess that makes them forget about it.” He ran from her before she could club him over the head with a pommel and approached Bull who greeted him.

“Heya, uh… Herald? Boss?”

Lavellan tensed, every alarm he had blaring, and bit out, “No.” He forced himself to calm. Not that it worked, but he entertained the thought that it did. “No. Mahanon. Or find a nickname, I don’t know. Varric calls me Glowy. Cassandra calls me idiot.”

Bull hummed. “Gonna need time. Nicknames need that tender, loving care, you know?” Lavellan found himself smiling at that, so small mercies, he supposed. “So? You on board with us or nah?”

“Any reports you send back have to be checked and approved by Leliana. Betray or compromise us and Cassandra will eat you alive,” he warned.

Bull chuckled. “I can believe that. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He called for Krem over his shoulders. “We just got hired, tell the men to finish drinking on the road.”

“But we just opened up the casks! With _axes_. And you know Rocky spills half of it on me when we drink on the road. This thing can blacken grass.”

Lavellan chuckled. “Let them drink. They’ve got time. I’m going to need your help fairly soon."

“Oh yeah? What’re we doing?”

“Hiring another band of mercenaries.”

* * *

Lavellan wiped the blood off his daggers with a disdainful glance at the corpse of the previous Hessarian leader that the other Hessarians carted away. To be thrown in a pit for the bears, they said. Lavellan sheathed his daggers with a heavy exhale. He had some letters to write for the families of their fallen scouts. The Iron Bull hefted his axe over his shoulders and appraised the Hessarian camp.

“Not bad,” he said. “You definitely saved them from serving under that prick. They look fifty times more grateful.”

“If they had the discipline to not kill that dungbat in his sleep, then I admire their tenacity,” said Lavellan. And with that, the Blades of Hessarian and their grateful members were now agents of the Inquisition.

“Their main purport is to be a religious military arm in the name of Andraste,” said Solas. “I assume they are thrilled about serving her Herald.”

Lavellan pursed his lips and peered at Solas over his shoulders. Was he mocking him? No, that may have just been an observation. “Not me. The Inquisition.”

“Yes, of course. But they serve the Inquisition for you.”

Lavellan didn’t deign that with an answer. Varric joined them after descending the roof he used as his vantage point.

“Shit, those Mabari were almost as tall as me.”

“Taller,” said Solas.

“Very funny, Chuckles.”

They made their way back to the camp where they had left Cassandra who was still stormy after Lavellan made her stay at camp and rest. Her mood only soured further upon their return. Varric laughed quietly behind him.

“How did it go?” she asked, though muttered was more apt.

“The Blades of Hessarians will gladly be agents of the Inquisition and will be our eyes and ears at the Coast,” he said and tilted his head. “You can stop sulking now.”

“I am not!”

“Not stopping or not sulking?” asked Varric.

The two bickered once more and Lavellan left them to it. The Chargers were at the Inquisition camp as well after Lavellan had offered some of their healing supplies for the injured, but there didn’t seem to be any major or fatal wounds. Now, they were just rowdy and likely already drunk. Lavellan allowed himself a soft smile at the sight before he asked the Requisition Officer for writing supplies, Scout Harding for the names of the missing scouts, then sat at one of the makeshift tables.

He'd written condolence letters before. They were never easy.

At one point, Cassandra and Varric joined and assisted him, their squabbling finished.

Once finished, Lavellan took a break and traversed the small pathway besides the camp to an overlook. The Waking Sea stretched forward towards the misty horizon. He hoped Ellana and the clan were alright. The first time he'd left, he'd been so worried about leaving her, especially since Ellana was a dreamer and the thought that something might happen to her while he was away had him gnawing on his lip. He had to trust that she would be alright.

As for him, they were finished here, and it was time to return to the Hinterlands. No messages from the advisors about the Templars. They still needed to gather some of the noble houses of Orlais as well, and he calculated the days it would take. There was also the issue of Redcliffe. He had no idea what to expect. What would happen if he successfully gained the mages? Would that alert Corypheus and would he tell the Envy demon to leave?

There were many things he couldn’t risk. The moment he gained the mages’ help, he would have to dash to Therinfal. This would be tight.

 _Clack_.

Lavellan turned, expecting to find Solas.

Instead found the Iron Bull with his hand outstretched towards Lavellan, blocked by Solas’ staff. The wooden blocks swayed. Bull turned to Solas, smile easy, but gaze sharp.

“Whoa there. Was just trying to get his attention,” he explained.

“Garner it in another manner. Preferably when he can see you.” Solas withdrew his staff and Bull grinned at Lavellan.

“Guess you don’t need me to be a bodyguard. You’ve already got one.”

Lavellan studied Solas but he was looking off into the horizon. This seemed to be their dynamic; avoiding eye contact.

“Not quite,” said Lavellan. “He’s more of a promising debate partner.”

“Huh.” Bull studied him again, more openly this time. “I’ve known a few elves in my time. You’re tall for one. Sorry, you probably get that a lot.”

Lavellan laughed. “It’s fine.”

He looked at Solas. “Both of you. Mercy here’s got a smidge over you. You’re pretty broad for one too.”

Probably because the ancient elves were gods-damned _massive_. Abelas was tall too. So were the ancient elves who had worked for Solas. When Solas had shifted to Fen’Harel’s form, he'd looked like a true ancient elf which made Lavellan petty. He'd liked being slightly taller than Solas. Now the git was tall _and_ could petrify people without even looking at them? Pisshat.

Solas tilted his head, stared up at Bull and said, “You’re short for a Qunari.”

…Was he?

“You seen many Qunari before?”

 _Too many to be comfortable with_. Lavellan recalled the hordes of Qunari he had fought with, in both senses of the word, just to get to Solas.

“I’ve encountered a few during my travels. Those I approached had been hostile. I avoided them from then on.”

“Ah, yeah, they’re like that.” He rubbed the back of his neck before he turned back to Lavellan. “So Mercy, heard from Cassandra that you’re returning to the Hinterlands. Is it alright if I drop my men off at your base first? I’ll rejoin if you need me.”

Lavellan considered the new nickname. “Mercy?”

“Work in progress,” he said. “You made that Mercy Crest instead of fighting those mercenaries. I liked that. Knew you were doing good work.”

He blinked. “Thank you.” Bull looked so earnest and it warmed Lavellan for a breath, but then he recalled the ease in which Bull had swapped that earnestness for apathy when the Qun had demanded it. “That’s alright. It would be nice if you met us at the Hinterlands, but if not, it’s fine.”

“Nah, I’ll be there then. We’ll head off now. Make good time.” He walked off and waved a hand. “See you there, Mercy.”

That left him alone with Solas. Was this the universe’s way of conspiring against him? Leaving him alone with Solas?

“Mercy,” mused Solas. “An interesting choice.”

“I’m inclined to agree. I’ve killed more than I’ve saved.”

“Killing may be a mercy, depending on the circumstance.”

“Well in my recent circumstances, they weren't mercies.” Lavellan leaned against the fence. It was a rocky drop onto the lower coast below, so he tried not to put too much weight on it. “You’ve been keeping an eye out for me today."

“Yes. You seemed especially uneasy about seeing the fighting. That, or you were uneasy about our new Qunari friend.”

There was a question in there.

“I met a Qunari, once,” he said. It was so easy giving in to Solas’ curiosity. “I thought we were friends. The moment the Qun demanded it, he turned against me.” He shrugged. “I suppose I'm wary. His loyalty to the Qun likely trumps any connections he makes with the Inquisition’s members. I guess I’m bracing myself for the inevitable hurt?”

“Yet you’d still let him join? Let him fight beside you?”

“I’m a masochist it seems,” he said and snorted. “Who knows? Maybe this one’s different. I should give him a chance.” Even as he said it, he doubted his words.

Solas regarded him, quiet. Had Solas been like this before? Lavellan was sure he was chatty in his own Solas way. It felt like their roles had reversed — Solas asked and listened, Lavellan answered, except now they were also on par with each other regarding secrets. At least he wasn’t the idiot whose plans kept backfiring into something worse.

Not yet anyway.

“Mercy,” Solas repeated. “Perhaps not too off the mark after all.”

* * *

Upon arrival at the Hinterlands, Lavellan was completely unsurprised to find Sera and Blackwall talking to each other in fierce whispers at camp, punctuated with Sera’s occasional sniggers. They both caught sight of him. Blackwall’s expression sobered and he stood and approached Lavellan.

“Warden Blackwall?” Lavellan asked.

“That is me, yes. You’re the Inquisition representative?”

“Something like that.”

“He’s the holy saviour, the chosen one, the Herald of Andraste,” introduced Varric with increasing flourish. Lavellan glared him into silence. Varric remained unapologetic.

Blackwall’s eyes widened. “You’re the Herald?” He turned to scowl at Sera. “You didn’t tell me!”

“It’s ‘cause you’ve got frig in your ears! All that bush went and crawled in there.”

Blackwall cleared his throat. “Right. Maker, I should’ve known. I should’ve realised sooner.”

“No harm done. It’s not like I’m going to make you kneel and recite to me all of Threnodies. That’d be boring for both of us, I assume.”

“No, he’d tell you to recite the Benedictions instead. It’s his favourite.”

“Varric. I told you, I didn’t mean to drop the fish on you.”

“It was _raw_ , Glowy. And bloody.”

Lavellan sighed. He'd dropped one of the fishes he was gutting for their lunch on Varric. So fussy.

“You shoot people for a living,” Lavellan pointed out.

“Correction, I’m a businessman. And I’m a good distance away when I do the shooting.”

“Warden Blackwall, why don’t we talk somewhere without fussy dwarves throwing a fit?” he asked, completely ignored Varric's protests as he dragged Blackwall off to a more private section of the camp.

After they had some semblance of quiet, Lavellan asked, “I hope Sera treated you alright?”

Sera's cackle and Varric's indignant yells from camp still managed to make its way towards them. What would it be like once Bull joined them? Creators, what a nightmare.

“She was good help against some bandits,” said Blackwall. “Started talking about the daft tit who glowed sending her here on behalf of the Inquisition to find me. I had no idea she was referring to you.”

Lavellan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. It became a strange mix of the two. “That’s me. Glowy, daft tit.” He schooled his expression. “Yes, I’m here on behalf of the Inquisition. Our spymaster is worried about the Wardens' disappearance and whether it may have anything to do with the events at the Conclave.”

Well, yes, the Wardens were involved. Technically, Blackwall wasn’t a Warden. As he gave his reasons and excuses, Lavellan almost laughed and wept. How had Blackwall survived this long? Still, Lavellan took pity on him eased back on the questioning.

Thom Rainier. Lavellan hadn’t known what to do with him. In the end, he had heeded his wishes and let Orlais execute him.

Sera didn't speak to him for a month.

Josephine had been dismal for longer.

In the late hours of the night, Lavellan had wondered whether he'd made the right choice, but at that point, late nights wondering whether he'd done the right thing was pretty much a hobby. In any case, he’d have to deal with the issue of Thom Rainier again.

His friends were filled with traitors and liars. It was almost comedic. Solas was Fen’Harel, Iron Bull was loyal to the Qun, Blackwall didn’t even exist, and Cole had betrayed him later down the line during the fight against Solas. Lavellan really had rotten luck. And a rotten heart because he still couldn’t help but care about them. If only he could crush that little shit. It got him into more trouble than it was worth.

Then again, he was a liar too. 

“You plan to help?” Blackwall asked after his explanation. “Restore peace?”

“That’s the plan.”

Blackwall straightened his spine and stared at Lavellan resolutely. Could there have been a better fate which awaited Rainier?

“If you’ll take me, I want to help the Inquisition in whatever way I can.”

Lavellan paused and made a show of assessing him, then smiled. “Welcome aboard. We appreciate your help.”

When they returned, he asked the scouts for a report of the Hinterlands’ state and immediately delegated jobs to groups, but he paused midway through his nattering and stared at his companions who were listening to him without complaint.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did it again.” He wasn’t Inquisitor. What was he doing?

“Glowy, none of us were complaining,” said Varric. “We have no idea where to start. Everything’s a giant mess. By all means, continue.”

Lavellan looked down and shuffled his feet. “Alright,” he said. “Then…”

They set to work on stabilising the Hinterlands. They closed rifts, finally spoke to Master Dennet and helped him with the farms and the black wolves, began construction on the watchtowers, and acquired more mounts. They also found a cult on the hills and earned agents out of them. Very lovely. All of which spanned over two and a half weeks with steady updates from the three advisors about the state of the preparation for the Templars.

By the last week of that month, he was preparing to head out with Solas, Blackwall, and Sera to rid the Eastern Road of bandits when a scout approached him with a letter in hand.

“Ser,” said the scout. He was young, Lavellan realised with a twist of his heart. How many children had taken shelter at Haven with their caretakers? The sight of small corpses in the snow― No, focus. “We just received this letter from Sister Nightingale. To give to you immediately.”

He accepted it and thanked the scout before opening the letter.

> _Herald,_
> 
> _We’ve traced the Templars to an abandoned fortress called Therinfal Redoubt, a four-hour horseback ride away from the Hinterlands. Josephine and I have been working with Madame de Fer to call in houses from within Orlais. We expect to have the ten houses allying with us within a week._
> 
> _-L_

“What’s it?” asked Sera.

Lavellan folded the letter with a grim smile. “The start of us sitting both the mages and the Templars down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan slowly assembling his crew of liars back together! It's a happy day for everyone.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments <3 They all make my day.
> 
> Obnoxious fun fact of the week that's got nothing to do whatsoever with this: there's a breathable liquid called perfluorocarbon. It's highly oxygenated so you can breathe the liquid in and not die, and apparently, being taken out of it and transitioning to air breathing again simulates what it's like to be born. Neat!
> 
> Oh, it's also used in modern torture. Yeah, nasty. But also, it could potentially help deep-sea diving and space travel. Ah, the duality of human nature.


	10. Where the children play

_bringing unto them the tongues of fire―_

* * *

“What do you mean Redcliffe village is still closed?” he asked the scout they met on the way to Redcliffe.

“They say they’re unwilling to risk opening the village when the rest of the Hinterlands are still unpredictable.”

Lavellan chewed on his bottom lip. “We’ve been stabilising the area for almost three weeks now. Are they still hesitant? The danger has significantly decreased.”

“They failed to elaborate,” said the scout.

“I suppose that’s understandable,” said Solas. “They are still in danger of persecution from the locals and the refugees. Perhaps we can show that the Inquisition has treated the mages fairly. That, or continue with establishing stability so that they may at least come out to interact with us.”

“Why the bloody frig are we trying to talk to mages?” asked Sera, holding herself back even if the gates were closed and all the way on the other side of the road.

Lavellan turned and walked back the way they came. “Well, looks like we’re not.” He looked back over his shoulder at the portcullis blocking the rest of the Hinterlands from the Redcliffe area and couldn’t help the unsettled twisting of his stomach.

Well, if Redcliffe wasn’t going to budge, they may as well continue with ridding the Eastern Road of the bandits.

After they finished, Solas paused on the way back.

Lavellan looked over his shoulder. “Solas? Is everything alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, I merely felt something.” He glanced back. “I believe I sense the ancient artefact of my people.”

 _My people_. Try as Lavellan might, he couldn’t brush away the pang of hurt, no matter how short-lived.

“Oh bung off, what now?” asked Sera.

Solas narrowed his eyes at her. “If I were you, I would offer more interest in the matter, Sera, since this instrument may strengthen the Veil and prevent the spirits you so love from entering this realm and being twisted into demons.”

Well, it was technically the truth. Those ancient artefacts _would_ strengthen the Veil yet they could just as easily weaken them. They were the anchor points holding a fabric tight over a surface. For now, it wasn’t in Solas or the Inquisition’s best interests to weaken the Veil, what with all the demons pouring out and the spirits being distressed from the Breach.

Sera stuck her tongue out at Solas and blew a raspberry. “Sacksplash. You try so hard to sound all high and mighty brainy.”

“And you place great importance in trying to make yourself sound nonsensical.”

Lavellan bit the inside of his cheek and faced Sera and Blackwall. “You two go on ahead,” he said. “Investigate that bandit hideout. Get Bull and Cassandra to go with you. Varric if he’s not busy.”

“Will you two be alright?” asked Blackwall.

“Probably. We’ll regroup at the lakeside camp.” They headed off with Sera throwing a final, venomous look over her shoulder. Lavellan pressed his lips into a thin line before he turned to Solas. “Alright Solas. Lead the way.”

Solas stared at Sera and Blackwall’s retreating forms. “You sent Sera away.”

“I sent both away.”

“With the express purpose of sending, specifically, Sera away but without isolating her.”

He sighed. “Consider it as me defusing a situation. Besides, she gets spooked enough about magic and elfy things.”

Solas gave him a peculiar look. “You could expose her to them and attempt to normalise them. By sending her away, you cover her eyes and ears and reaffirm her beliefs that such things are indeed unnatural and should be escaped.”

“Yes, but I’m not immediately throwing her off the deep end.”

“The artefact I’m pursuing is barely threatening. It’s a rather good start, in fact.”

 _You sure?_ “The way you mentioned it made it sound foreboding. Forgive me for jumping to conclusions.”

“Indeed. You could have just asked.”

Lavellan refrained from grumbling at him. They walked towards the elven artefact.

“I’ve noticed,” said Solas, “that you seem to be protective of Sera. Is there a reason?”

“She’s the youngest of us,” he said. “And she’s close to my sister’s age. I suppose I can’t help being protective.”

“Is she similar to your sister?”

“Yes and no.” He left it at that.

“Even if she hates elves such as you?”

Alright, well Lavellan dug his own grave with this one.

“Solas, you know we tend to almost fight when we get on the subject about elves.”

Solas stopped walking and Lavellan scowled. Oh no. “I have noticed that, yes. I have also noticed that you run away each time. I thought perhaps you disliked confrontations, but clearly you have no problem instructing others and arguing with them about how best to approach things.”

Great! He was in an argumentative mood. Lavellan bit his lip and faced Solas with a scowl. “Do you have a problem with me, Solas? I thought I made it clear that if you disliked my being bossy, you’re free to tell me.”

“It is not bossiness, Herald.” Oh piss him. The title again. “But yes I suppose I do have a problem. Do you feel anger?”

Did he feel― Every fucking day? His scowl darkened. “Yes, Solas, I _do_ feel anger. Any other emotion you wish to confirm the existence of?”

“You have been belittled, underestimated, ignored, disdained, or often all of the above for the sole reason of being an elf. Yet you lie down and take it. For somebody quick to defend others, you are slow to parry for yourself. You let yourself be around such disdainful people, allow yourself to change or hide to suit _their_ whims. And you allow them. You claim you do not wish to lose yourself within the title of Herald and yet you allow yourself to be swallowed.”

“Sul’ema em hamin[1], it’s called being civil! What? I fight them and prove every single legend about the Dalish and the elves true? That we are nothing but savages who prance around naked in the moonlight and sacrifice infants to our malevolent gods?”

“I did not say take up arms and fight! At the very least, use your words. I have seen you use them and you can be clever with them, and yet you are _not_. Ema solas[2]!”

Lavellan couldn’t stop the growl that escaped him. Have some pride? Have some pride?! “You want me to be smart? To be glib? I don’t know what kind of man you’ve made me out to be, Solas, but it isn’t someone who can think up of something on his feet to rebuke the disdainful while staying out of trouble, _while also_ thinking of what to do to stop the Breach and find whoever caused the Conclave explosion and navigate an unknown world that I’m supposedly the saviour of.”

He was breathless by the end of his tirade but Creators he was not _done_.

“I say the wrong thing, you think I’m the only one who gets in trouble? How many elven workers do you see at Haven? I piss someone off and they can’t take it out on me but what about that elven girl just passing by to drop off some bread?” He rubbed his face and shook his head. “Well done, I’m angry. Was this what you wanted?” He turned and started walking. “Find your damned artefact.”

Solas was silent. That’s fucking new. Solas was _silent_ after an argument.

“Mahanon―”

“Ava etunash[3],” he snapped. “Just walk.”

The atmosphere remained stormier than one of Solas’ electric spells as they walked towards the elven ruin. There they found a Dalish mage battling a demon who introduced herself as Mihris after Lavellan and Solas assisted her. She completely ignored Solas though and Lavellan’s irritation worsened.

“We need focused magical energy to move forward,” she said once they reached a pile of crumbled rocks blocking the entrance. She turned to Solas. “You, _flat-ear_ , can you manage it?”

“His name is Solas,” Lavellan cut in.

Solas merely gave him a look. _You are only proving my point,_ it said. He nodded at Mihris with a hollow smile. “Ma nuvenin, da’len[4].”

The three of them traversed the ruin, Lavellan pretending that he was unfamiliar with Veilfire, and took out his anger on the demons within.

And by the foot of an altar stood the artefact, alone in the dark, a cold sphere. Solas knelt beside it and fiddled with the knobs on its surface before a green barrier enveloped the sphere and the Veil strengthened. A whisper over his skin. Most people never felt the Veil unless it was close to tearing. Elves were more sensitive to it, but the Anchor had amplified his sense further.

“There, the wards are working,” murmured Solas.

Lavellan stared at the artefact. Was there a way to block Solas from them in the future so that he couldn’t use them to weaken the Veil?

Mihris and Solas engaged in a conversation but Lavellan tuned them out. He crouched beside the artefact and traced the surface of it, his fingers tingling when they passed the green barrier. Lavellan stared at his marked hand. Then pressed it over the barrier. Was the Anchor the key to these as well?

The Anchor flared and locked together with the barrier, like with the rifts, but weaker.

“What are you doing?” Solas asked, voice clipped.

“Wondering if the mark and the artefacts are connected.” He experimented with pulling at the connection.

The Veil wavered. Lavellan gasped.

Solas grabbed his wrist and yanked it away from the artefact, the Anchor's green flares sputtering away.

Lavellan narrowed his eyes at him and pointedly looked at the hand arresting his wrists. Solas let go. Still, Lavellan smiled to himself. The Anchor belonged to Fen’Harel, and it was Fen’Harel who created the Veil, so it made sense that the two were connected.

“That’s a yes,” said Lavellan.

“Perhaps,” said Solas. “Or perhaps the two forces will contradict one another and result in harming consequences for you! In the future, I suggest that you do not do that again.”

Lavellan pursed his lips. “Alright. Pardon the curiosity.”

Mihris cleared her throat. “I suppose I must be going as our alliance has concluded,” she said. “Thank you for the help. It seems the ancestors left a little something for me as well. Go in peace, stranger.” She smiled, amulet clasped in hand.

Solas frowned, opened his mouth, but Lavellan interjected with a pleasant, “Mythal’enaste, Mihris. Dareth shiral[5].”

“Mythal’enaste,” she returned. “I wish you luck with your Inquisition.”

She left and Solas’ displeasure felt more palpable than the Veil.

“Don’t give me that look,” Lavellan grumbled.

“I am not looking at you,” he said, tone petulant. Lavellan still wasn’t sure whether he should be proud or careful that he could draw out some pettiness from Solas.

They walked back to the lakeside camp in frosty silence. He was ready to jump out of his skin by the time they returned, and Lavellan considered hunting again just to get away from Solas. Their dynamic before hadn’t been like this at all. He and Solas got along somewhat fine and any disagreements they had were more along the lines of a polite debate. Hostilities had been quick to fade.

Their dynamic shift could be pinned on Lavellan having changed as a person. Of course Solas wouldn’t react the same. Whoever Lavellan had been before all of this, he was gone and dead, having joined the ranks of the fallen in their mountain of ash. He eyed Solas and caught him already staring. Again.

Lavellan knew Solas’ silence after an argument wouldn’t last long.

“You let that Dalish mage take the amulet,” said Solas.

“Yes. You find fault with that?”

“You let her take a magical item that she likely does not understand or know how to use.” Solas gave him a wry smile. “Ah, but I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. The Dalish have long since claimed mastery over matters beyond their comprehension.”

“I suppose you would know it all then! Fade-walker such as you, I’m certain you’ve seen countless images of the past replayed. The Dalish must seem like children to you.”

“You mock and yet you are correct.” Solas’ smile slipped. “The Dalish do not seem like children for they _are_ children. Scrabbling at the scattered scraps of their bright and broken empire. I walked the Fade where scenes from ancient past revealed the truth which they have told as myth. Where myth was blurred and passed along as truth. And yet they would not listen to any knowledge I offered.”

“Please tell me you offered information in person and not through dreams. Because I can assure you that anybody would suspect demonic interference when a stranger appears in the Fade offering information about the ancient elves.” That, or the Dalish likely knew him to be Fen'Harel. There were many stories of the trickster god dispensing dark knowledge at his whim.

“What does it matter? Both yielded similar results: the Dalish choose to remain unaware, holding superiority over the _flat-ear_ and returning to play-acting their pale imitations.”

His chest knotted and gripped his ribs, stretched them inwards. While he could draw pettiness out of Solas, Solas could draw out blind fury from him. Lavellan knew he mustn’t give in.

But _fuck_ him.

Lavellan clasped his hands behind his back as he fully faced Solas in case they flew off and accidentally nailed Solas in the jaw.

“We are _trying_! I beg your pardon if we don’t quite meet your lofty expectations.”

“Ah, yes, of course. My mistake. It was unfair of me to expect the Dalish to accomplish what they cannot.”

Lavellan’s laugh bordered on hysterical. “Solas, it sounds to me as if you blame the elves for things they can’t control because you feel ashamed of _your_ failures.” Solas looked as if Lavellan punched him anyway. “Yes, we are trying, yes we are aware it isn’t _good enough,_ but at least we're still enduring. At least we rebel in their own way by preserving the identity and culture stolen from us. You're so focused on the fact that we get things wrong that you forget to see that we're not solely defined by our past.”

“Shall we forget then? Wave our hands and accept the new, broken shambles of truth?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I said our attempts to discover and preserve the past is not our only defining characteristic.”

“Of course. They’re quite condescending too, are they not?”

“So are you.” He and Solas stared one another down. “Does that make you Dalish then?”

They’d fought like this too. At the edge of the world, they had fought, but with blades rather than words. The soft conversations seemed far then. The mutual sharing of curiosity and answers and unanswered questions, the teasing, the witty banter ― they were reflections smudged on the edges of a cracked mirror. Afterthoughts.

“Yes, the Dalish can be wary and distrustful of outsiders because we’re trying to survive in a world desperate to erase us. Yes, we can be hurtful. But do you know what we also are? We are persevering, caring, curious. We are stupid; we are wise. And do you know what we’re starting to sound like? Literally anybody else! We're something different from the ancient elves but not necessarily worse. We're not shadows playing make-believe. We have the _right_ to recover our past despite whatever mistakes we may pick up on the way, we have a right to mourn it, to hold onto it.” Lavellan shook. Anger always made him so, from his fingers to his lungs. “I ask you then, is your problem really with the fact that we refuse to see truth or that we are not what you want us to be?”

A little of the Solas façade wore away. Fen’Harel lingered in the corners, a wolf crouching and raising its hackles and baring its fangs. For a moment, Lavellan saw it. Saw the fear Solas inspired in his enemies and the refuge his followers felt when protected by that fury.

Solas opened his mouth, scathing remark ready―

“Oh for the love of Andraste’s sacred knickers, who left these two alone?” Varric cried.

Solas blinked, and the anger bled away from his eyes, the wolf slinking back to its shadowed corner. Lavellan looked over and found the rest of his companions arriving at camp, all in varied states of haggard or exhausted.

“He told us to go on ahead!” Sera protested. “How was I supposed to know?”

Varric shook his head mournfully. “Almost lasted the week. This is what I get for being optimistic.”

“Told you,” chuckled Bull. “Pay up.”

Lavellan scowled. Solas stepped away from him and left the camp without a word. Cassandra moved aside awkwardly to let him through.

“Solas, will you be alright alone?” she called after him.

“Yes.” And he was gone.

“Well, what crawled up his arse and died?” asked Sera. Lavellan yanked his bow out of his tent and restrung it.

His companions settled themselves but a few shot him glances.

“The bandit hideout?” he asked, just to dispel the heavy atmosphere and distract himself.

“Cleared. It’s a villa, did you know that?” asked Varric.

Lavellan stood. “Then we can turn that villa into something far more useful. Better medical facilities maybe. Or places to sleep. Both. A kind of sanctuary.” He uncapped his quiver, slung it over his back, and double checked his bowstring. “I’ll work on making the woods safer later. Get rid of the rifts.”

“Where you going, Glowy?” Varric asked.

“Hunting.”

Cassandra scrutinised him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

He shot her a sunny smile. “No. Better I hit a ram in the lung than Solas in the balls though.”

In the end, Lavellan didn’t go out hunting. Rather, he sought out the tallest point of the Hinterlands then scaled it. It was up a hill and a stream behind the farms. He rested there for a moment and leaned his head against the tree, his anger mostly subsided from the walk over.

That argument was… interesting. He winced.

_“It sounds to me as if you blame the elves for things they can’t control because you feel ashamed of your failures.”_

Lavellan hadn’t meant for that to slip. So many stupid things he could’ve said if it had gone on for longer. This was why he didn’t want to argue with Solas about the elves.

Still, it must be lonely.

Solas awoke in a foreign time which was a result of his mistakes, attempted to reach out to the remaining elves only to be turned away or shunned.

_“It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.”_

“We’re not even real to you,” mumbled Lavellan. He hugged his knees closer to his chest. Lavellan had been _special_ , or some shit, became real to Solas because what? They were lovers? Not that it mattered because like the Iron Bull, Solas could turn away from their connections to achieve some higher goal.

What was he going to do?

He stared at the patch of crystal grace beside him and plucked one of the flowers. Lavellan ran his left fingers over the petals, just to remind himself that his left hand was there. He had grown more accustomed to having his arm again, used it more often when fighting with daggers. Reacquainting himself with the bow was awkward at first but the body never forgot.

The wind brushed his hair back and fanned over his face while the stream nearby burbled a gentle lullaby. Exhaustion caught up to him and he closed his eyes. Just a few minutes.

* * *

It was a lake on the edge of the world.

The water was waist-deep and crystalline, but there was no bottom in its depth. Long below, a fall into the abyss. The abyss was strangely beautiful.

There was a black wolf on the lake's shores.

They stared at each other. The wolf crouched; growled and snapped its jaws at him. He almost reached for a weapon, ready should the wolf spring and close its jaws over his throat, but he paused. That was not a wolf ready for an attack.

That was a wolf attempting to protect itself.

He tilted his head in curiosity at it. Peculiar. The darkness of its fur dripped, thicker than blood, wispier than smoke. Silver dripped from its snarling mouth. The wolf was both titanic and diminished, had too many eyes and none at all, ears pricked forward in alarm yet folded back in fear. He took a gentle step forward. The water shifted and shimmered, rang clear in the din, and he reached out his left hand. Sunlight spilled from his fingers.

The wolf ceased snarling. Then tilted its head as well. It stopped straddling the all or nothing.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. The waters danced with the melody of his voice. He chanced another step, but the wolf snarled once more. “Alright. I won’t come closer. Will you come into the water then?”

His hand was still outstretched. The wolf stopped its growling, regarded him with the eyes of a bloodied battlefield.

It dipped one of its paws into the lake.

The crystalline waters burst with crimson, the pulp of a fruit rupturing between cracked lips and dyeing them with blood. Red waters thickened.

And the abyss pulled him into its depths.

Howling.

* * *

Lavellan awoke with a gasp. His left hand had crushed the crystal grace in his sleep and he stared at its wilted remains. Well, how ominous. He rubbed his face. Of course he’d dream about a wolf.

Never mind that, he must have slept for longer than he had anticipated. It was dusk and the sun was gone from the purple sky. Better head back before the others thought he died or left them or something. He stood and dusted himself off.

When he returned to the lakeside camp, Cassandra marched up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him furiously.

“Where have you _been_? You’ve been gone for hours!”

“Seeker, you’re shaking the poor guy too hard,” said Varric. “But what she said. We were worried.”

Cassandra stopped shaking him and Lavellan laughed airily. “I found a really pretty place and ended up falling asleep. I must’ve slept for longer than I thought.”

She sighed. “We sent Blackwall, Sera, and Bull to look for you. Hopefully they will be back soon.”

“Has Solas come back?” he asked then cursed himself. He was supposed to be mad.

“Briefly,” she said. “But we mentioned you had not returned and I believe he set off in search for you as well.”

His brows raised. “Really?”

She released his shoulders from her death grip and his ligaments thanked the release. Cassandra’s frown eased. “What were you two fighting about?”

Lavellan rubbed the back of his neck. “Elves.”

Varric sighed from behind him. “Can’t you elves just play nice for once?”

Lavellan almost laughed again. All he could think of was Briala’s agents versus Solas’, and then the entire history of the ancient elves. No, elves had never played nice. But Varric did say ‘for once’ so he sighed and asked, “Do you know where he went? I should talk to him.”

“Is that a good idea?” asked Varric. “I mean, it’s dark and you _did_ just get into a fight. Mind you, we were all kind of waiting for it to happen.”

“We weren’t that bad, were we?”

“Glowy, it was like waiting for a bomb to blow.”

Lavellan winced.

“Are you going to find him to reconcile?” Cassandra asked.

“That’s the plan at least. I wouldn't be surprised if we end up arguing again but I’ll try to talk to him. Sort things out.”

Cassandra assessed him for a silent moment, before she reached a conclusion.

“Very well. He mentioned searching in Hafter’s Woods.”

“With the _bears_ lurking about? And unclosed rifts?” he hissed. “Is he mad?” Lavellan grabbed one of the lanterns. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll accompany you,” she said. “The bears and demons are difficult alone.”

He shook his head and smiled. “I’ll be alright, thank you.” Cassandra twisted her mouth, unconvinced. “I promise. The Dalish have methods of warding off bears but I can't extend them to you to keep you safe. I can also sense where the rifts are so I can avoid them. I’ll ultimately be safer alone.”

She hesitated but she relented with a sigh. “I trust you know what you’re doing. I hope it works out.”

Somehow, he knew she didn’t mean the bears.

“Me too.”

Lavellan set out, illuminated by a lone lantern in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀👀 Sips tea. Be very careful Solas, Lavellan knows how to make it hurt.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Sul'ema em hamin:** Give me a break (lit. give me rest) [⇧]  
> [2] **Ema solas:** Stand tall (lit. have pride) [⇧]  
> [3] **Ava etunash:** Eat shit [⇧]  
> [4] **Ma nuvenin, da'len:** As you say, little one [⇧]  
> [5] **Mythal'enaste, Mihris. Dareth shiral:** Mythal's favour, Mihris. Safe journey. [⇧]


	11. Within the forests lurk

_a strange and curious thing—_

* * *

The forest was far too quiet.

It was likely due to the Fade rifts’ influence which had displaced the native fauna save for the bears. Bears gave zero shits. Lavellan aspired to be like a bear.

Still, rationalising the silence did nothing to ease his mind. His footsteps were too loud even as he stepped with a hunter’s practiced prowl. The Veil was also unsteady here, flitting over his skin, swaying and orbiting the Anchor but never lingering. He remained wary of shapes in the shadows. Could be bears. Maybe demons. Wouldn’t that be rotten?

The moon was irregular, just this side close to full, smearing clawing shadows across the ground.

“Stop scaring yourself,” he grumbled.

It was quieter than the dead. To the point that the Well of Sorrows became a roll of thunder in his mind which further scattered his focus.

A cloud passed over the moon and casted him in the pall of night.

_Ma laim[1]._

Lavellan halted. The lantern creaked at the sudden stop.

The Well’s unintelligible whispers ghosted over his awareness. Lavellan strained to listen. Words which were usually broken rang with clarity ― bells of an ancient, ruined tower.

 _Dirtharemah junuem y ma tel’juhalamshiras. Din nadas_ _[2]._

He scowled. “Banalas![3]”

_Harem himem harellan[ [4]._

Could a collection of the detached voices of the dead laugh? It certainly sounded like it to Lavellan. He rubbed his eyes. The deceived became the deceiver, indeed.

The whispers rescinded. Afterthoughts once more.

Did the Well have to tell him those ominous things while he was roaming the woods at night? Must it really? It was the Well of Sorrows, not the Well of Terrible Omens.

He ground his teeth and walked. Every pocket of darkness could be hosting a menace, and while Lavellan had no fear of the dark, he didn’t extend the same courtesy to ambiguity. His free hand rested on his dagger hilt.

A glow in his periphery.

Lavellan’s heart pounded. All the stories that their elders had told them of the creatures lurking within the woods beneath the curtain of darkness reared its head. He couldn’t shake them off. Creators, he was thirty and he was afraid of bedtime stories.

But something shifted in the shadows within the trees. He held his lantern up higher.

Another shift.

He let go of the dagger and placed the lantern down, unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. Breathed. Waited. Keen eyes on the dark.

The darkness gained shape. Red eyes.

A wolf.

Panic surged and he drew in haste, ready to release―

 _Clack_.

Lavellan blinked.

Solas stepped out from the trees just as the clouds parted, the tip of his staff glowing green and _how did I miss that?_

“Fenedhis,” Lavellan cursed as he relaxed and returned the arrow. “You startled me.”

Solas was unearthly in the moonlight, the play of shadow and light sharpening his features and seemingly cascading off him as he walked. He had his moments of grace. Lavellan still couldn’t speak during them.

Well, he was right. The shadow he saw was a wolf. Just… the Dread kind.

“As to be expected when one roams the woods at night,” said Solas.

“I wasn’t roaming the woods before. I only roamed it because Cassandra told me you were stupid enough to look for me here of all places.”

Solas frowned. The light from his staff was brighter than the lantern and once again, _how_ did Lavellan miss that?

“I was not the one who'd vanished for hours. They say you went out hunting. I assumed you may have been foolish enough in your anger to go after something difficult. I thought perhaps you may have hunted for bears.”

“You think I’m stupid enough to get myself killed when I’m angry?”

“How should I know? I’ve never seen you angered before."

“If you must know, I didn’t even get to hunt. I found a pretty place and fell asleep.” He picked the lantern up. “That’s why I was gone for hours.”

They shuffled in the awkward silence that followed. Lavellan nodded at the direction back to camp.

“Come on. Let’s…” He gave the surroundings an uneasy look. “Let’s get out of here. The Veil is strange here and I suspect the rifts have driven away the wildlife. It’s eerie.”

Solas looked around with a sour twist of his lips. “I agree.”

Lavellan stifled a snort as they walked, Solas leading with his light. Their first agreement of the day.

“I almost shot at you,” Lavellan admitted, and because he wasn’t done being a shit, said, “I thought you were a massive wolf. The stories that the hahrens told us as children returned. It was silly. I thought it may have been Fen’Harel.”

Solas was silent. Lavellan watched the back of his head.

“Would it have been so terrible to be seen by the Dread Wolf?” asked Solas. 

“That would depend on his intentions.” Lavellan grinned. “Perhaps you are actually him, masquerading as my friend and here I am, following blindly.”

Solas glanced at him over his shoulder. And smiled.

“If true, then you would stand no chance.”

Lavellan laughed so he wouldn’t burst into tears. “Palahna em[5].”

“Is ela[6].”

“Then if you are indeed Fen’Harel, answer my question.” It was probably unwise to keep pushing the matter further. He couldn't risk Solas becoming suspicious, but, well… It was much too fun.

The wooden blocks knocked with every step they took. “ _Am_ I Fen’Harel?”

“Hey now, I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Ah, I beg your pardon. Ask away.”

Lavellan stared at the stars. “Which Elvhen god has the most luscious locks?”

Solas was quiet, radiating confusion. Lavellan could track the exact second he understood. Solas shot him a warning glance. “Mahanon―”

“Fen―”

“No―”

“ _Hair_ el.”

Lavellan cackled at Solas’ disappointed and disapproving noises.

“Yes by all means, do continue laughing. I’m certain the bears and demons adore the sound of your mirth.”

“I’m _howling_ with laughter!”

The terrible wolf puns followed Solas all the way back to camp. Everybody glanced up when they returned. It seemed Sera, Blackwall, and Bull had returned from looking for him too. They had fish roasting over the flames and Lavellan hadn’t realised how hungry he'd gotten.

“Was the spooky forest full of demons a great bonding experience?” Bull asked.

“Quite,” said Solas, sufficiently hassled.

Lavellan sniggered, grin returning. “Well! It’s a good thing we arrived in time for dinner. I’m so hungry I could―”

“Enough―”

“ _Wolf_ it all down.”

Solas hit Lavellan’s shin with his staff. He yelped and rubbed the offending spot but he wasn’t done.

“Well, now I’m _howling_ in pain.”

Sera erupted into guffaws and Lavellan’s grin widened into a shit-eating one.

* * *

The sleeping elixir's blue translucence mocked him as he swirled the bottle in his hand.

In the end, he put it aside and crept out of his tent again. He had a feeling this would become routine.

The camp was silent but it wasn’t the eerie silence of Hafter’s Woods ― the waterfall trickled and the crickets sang and somebody snored softly. Sera, probably. This lakeside camp was nice but their group was getting too big.

 _Clack_.

“Why are you still up?”

Lavellan turned, found Solas huddled beneath the tree beside the small pool of water.

“I could ask you the same. I know you like to dream.”

Solas smiled. “Earlier I was accosted by children selling pastries. Their mother was ill and so they took over momentarily to continue baking and selling in her stead. I had not realised they used a spice which would inhibit my dreaming.”

“Surely it couldn’t have affected you that much if they were merely used as spices?”

“I…” He hesitated. Then bowed his head as if tucking it into his chest. “Overindulged.”

Lavellan chuckled. Solas’ careful control could only be undone by pastries and frilly cakes.

“But I presume your sleeplessness cannot be pinned on pastry,” said Solas.

“I wish it could.” Lavellan rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping for a while. I have sleeping elixirs but… Well, I usually sit on the edge over there and watch the stars but we’re a bit crammed here.” He watched Solas, tucked tight under his tree, and the years of longing and missing buried beneath the turbulence of hurt and anger resurfaced. Punched him in the stomach. He didn’t want to keep arguing with Solas, but he knew they still would.

Even so, it was a moment of weakness when Lavellan asked, “Would you like to walk with me?”

Solas peered at him. Lavellan wasn’t sure whether he wanted him to accept or decline, but then, Solas stood and a relieved breath filled him.

“So long as you cease with the terrible wolf puns.”

“Do you not appreciate them? Ah, perhaps you’re not the Dread Wolf after all. I’m positive Fen’Harel would have loved them.”

Solas hummed and they walked away from camp. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but they descended the hill towards the King’s Road.

“If he did enjoy them, what would you do then?” Solas asked. “The Dalish would say earning his favour is not wise.”

_Fen’Harel would break my damn heart if I earned his favour. My bloody arm too while he was at it._

“Are you being rhetorical?”

“I’m being completely serious.” The moon lit their way. Lavellan eyed Solas whose gaze was fixed ahead.

“What would I do if I gained Fen’Harel’s favour?” Lavellan mused and side-eyed him, puzzled. What was with this line of questioning? “A very interesting question, though I’m not sure why you ask?”

Solas knotted the blocks to his staff so they would stop making noise. He knotted it quick. Lavellan wasn’t sure if he was proud or exasperated that he picked it up so fast.

“Must there be a reason for every question? In any case, answers, even ones meant for odd questions, reveal a part of the person.”

“You’re saying you want to get to know me?”

“I… Yes. So, Fen’Harel?”

Lavellan thought on the question, kicked a stray pebble and watched it skid across the path.

“When I was younger, I loved the stories about Fen’Harel,” he admitted.

“Which? The stories detailing his tendency to feast on the souls of infants and children lost in the woods?” he asked. Lavellan grimaced because yes, those _were_ stories he had heard about the Dread Wolf too.

“I was more referring to the stories of his cunning. Or, well, I suppose the Keeper called them _cautionary tales_.”

“I see,” said Solas, careful and wary with his answer. “And you enjoyed these stories of cunning?”

“I did. And I wondered about them. My Keeper warned us that the Dread Wolf lied, that he cannot be trusted and the clan must be protected from him.” He observed Solas’ reactions through the corner of his eye. “But you know, he never actually lied. Not outright. I thought that was interesting, though nobody answered when I asked questions about it. Told me asking about the Dread Wolf will only bring about trouble.” He scowled, recalled his indignance when he was younger for what child did not wish for an answer to their queries?

Solas looked at him then. “That is unsurprising.”

Lavellan huffed. “And unsatisfying. I let it go eventually, but nobody likes to feel hushed when they’re curious. At least I don’t.” Solas hummed in agreement, used the end of his staff to push a plank of wood off the path. “But as much as I respected his cleverness, I disliked some of his actions.”

“Thus, you admire and yet despise the Dread Wolf?”

“No, maybe not those words. More respect yet disapproved, perhaps. I respect his cunning but disapprove of his actions. They were unnecessarily cruel in the stories. But since my Keeper called them cautionary tales, I treated them as such. Not actual truth. So who knows what Fen’Harel is truly like?” Lavellan smiled to himself. “Then I began asking about them under the guise of wanting to know how to better protect the clan against him. 'I just want to study how he goes about his tricks,' I said. My sister saw through me though so I made her sneak me more stories of the Dread Wolf after her lessons with the Keeper.”

_“‘Hanon, you’re going to get me in trouble!”_

_He grinned. “Only if we tell, which we won’t. So what have you got for me?”_

_Ellana threw her head back to sigh dramatically but she indulged him. “Fine,” she huffed. “Have you heard of the story with the boar and the blind elf?”_

_His grin widened._

How he enjoyed those nights. When they whispered and spun those stories in their aravel under the soft light of Ellana's magic while the rest of the clan slept. The stories gave him comfort. Their mother would often tell them stories before they slept but when she died, they told stories of their own to fill the void. Sang her lullaby to each other. It was the only way they could sleep otherwise. The practice continued even as they grew older though the stories became less fictional, became more about summarising each other's days.

Maybe that was why he couldn't sleep well now. 

“Ah,” murmured Solas, a delighted spark lighting his eyes. “Your own little rebellion.”

Lavellan gave him a strange look. "Not really."

"No? You have been actively discouraged from seeking knowledge and yet you found a way to do so."

He _would_ approve of that, wouldn't he? Lavellan laughed. "You make me sound like a troublemaking youth."

"Were you not?"

"I have it on good authority that I was well-behaved."

Solas made an unconvinced noise.

“But going back to your question,” said Lavellan, “if Fen’Harel became fond of me, I would need to be clever enough to understand what he’s saying with what he is _not_ saying.” Solas finally looked at him then and Lavellan wondered how he would react if he slapped the back of his head. _Oh you think you’re_ such _a clever little wolf, don’t you?_

“And do you suppose you would be clever enough?” asked Solas.

Lavellan looked at the stars with a small, cryptic smile. “He can come find out for himself.”

That elicited a surprised huff of laughter from Solas.

“And since my Keeper won’t answer me,” continued Lavellan, “I may as well get the answers from the source, right?”

“You would approach a figure the Dalish have painted as the traitor of your gods,” said Solas, “and _ask_ him questions?”

“Yes,” he said, unfazed.

“Just like that?”

“You think I’m stopping at questions? I’m demanding he tell me stories, both truth and fiction. So long as he’s forthcoming about which is which. Or maybe I’ll have to figure it out myself. Either way.”

“You would not ask for power? Vengeance upon enemies?”

“What for? Quite a waste of time, and it’s already been established that apparently, he likes to teach people a hidden lesson with his favours. Besides, there are plenty of people mad with power, plenty of those mad from _looking_ for power. It corrupts. Then you believe you can do anything and that surely what you think the best course of action is applies to everyone. Or you forget about others in the first place. No, I don’t want power.”

And yet the world saw it fit to wrap it around his throat.

“And you would like to hear his stories instead?”

“Yes. I like stories. Partly why I like Varric. He always sounds like he’s weaving one in the moment.” He bit his lip. “And partly why I like you. You’ve travelled far in your dreams. You have marvellous things to share.”

That stopped Solas. Lavellan stopped walking and faced him.

“What?” Lavellan asked.

Solas watched Lavellan as if he were a new species. “Nothing. Simply, I had assumed you weren’t fond of me.”

“Because of the argument we had?”

“Among other things. And you’ve mentioned that I reminded you of… whoever hurt you in the past.”

“Solas, I never disliked you.” And wasn’t that the painful truth? Even after everything… Enduring his love was a path of sorrow and hurt and fury. Lavellan should hate him, should curse him and slash his name off Lavellan’s pitiful heart, but he could never bring himself to do it. Could never remove Solas. Or Fen’Harel. Or whatever his true name was, buried beneath the layers of disguises and ancient sins. “And I’m sorry I came across otherwise. I was angry with you, and I don’t guarantee we won’t argue again because I’m certain we will―” Solas smiled briefly at that― “but I don’t dislike you. I enjoy your company.”

That struck Solas silent. He took a step forward towards Lavellan, and another, until they were side by side.

“Thank you,” said Solas. “If it matters, I enjoy your company too.”

“As you rightfully should,” he joked. “I’m a treat and a half.”

“And so very humble too.”

The King’s Road and the surrounding area was in the middle of reparations. Lavellan made sure to stay on the cleared path since he and Solas were barefoot. He had been wearing shoes for a while so his feet had gotten a little unused to rougher terrains again. 

"I do not mean to start another fight," said Solas, "but I cannot... understand how you can be content with learning and preserving the wrong information. Should you not strive to pass down accurate history, no matter how uncomfortable?"

"It's not about whether the information is wrong or right, it's about keeping our culture alive. Our identity. Keeping our place in the world. Fighting to say that we have a right to remain here just as much as anybody else and that they can't make us fade because, what? Our ears are longer?"

"What if you perpetuate harmful biases? What if the information you sought to keep blinds you and pushes you to repeat a mistake your ancestors have done?"

Lavellan could tell Solas was doing his best to be on good behaviour and keep his voice level. "We're doing the best we can with what we have. So much has been lost over time from persecution or from humans trampling on it in their conquests. Still, the truth will always resurface at some point. Maybe not now, but it's still one step closer over doing nothing. And maybe the information could be wrong, but that doesn't make it useless. It could still contain lessons."

They settled themselves on a small hillside, legs dangling over the edge.

"Some would argue the Dalish are too stuck in the past," murmured Solas.

"What do you think?"

"I am more interested in hearing your opinion on the matter."

Lavellan chewed on that, fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. "There's a danger of wallowing. There's always a danger of that, but I think the circumstances are different. We're trying to recover and safeguard what we can. Nobody's shitting on Orlesian historians for being _too stuck in the past_ , now, are they?"

To that, Solas responded with an agreeing snort. He glanced up at the stars. “I wonder then where the balance between wallowing and learning is?” asked Solas.

“I doubt that has an easy answer, or one at all. All I know is that those who try to recreate the past perfectly are bound for failure, disappointment, or misery." Lavellan glanced at him still watching the stars. 

“And if their attempts to recreate the past is perhaps a way of fixing their mistake?”

_Blood, pain, tears, anger. The sky fell. This was a pyrrhic victory._

“They’ve traded an old mistake for a new one then. Over and over it goes on. A loop.”

Solas leaned back against the hillside. “And if the past is truly better than the present? Objectively, without idealism or romanticism, what if that past world was indeed better?”

Lavellan traced the hem of his sleeves. He imaged it, Elvhenan. It _was_ beautiful, expansive, magical. Compared to the shitshow that was this age, and even the ones before, Lavellan knew Elvhenan sounded better in comparison for the elves. Not only that. Existence then was likely different. A different state of awareness, a higher level of sense.

“See what made it better I suppose. See what made it worse or just as bad. Be the change you want to see within your realm of ability.” Was Lavellan just unwittingly encouraging Solas again with his answers? “The past can be learned from but it can’t be brought back. Shouldn’t. Besides, the world is always changing. Our actions now might help shape an even better future.” Even as he said it, he knew Solas wouldn’t listen. This existence was lesser to him. He who had lived most of his life co-existing with the Fade and whatever that world was.

“You are very idealistic,” said Solas.

Lavellan smiled ruefully. “Cynicism exhausted me.”

Solas laughed, the sound mellow from sleepiness.

“But you said you know things about the ancient elves that the Dalish do not,” Lavellan said. “I’m sorry you were shunned, but if it helps, I hope you don’t mind me asking about it.”

“Hm, no, quite the opposite. My stories and knowledge are yours.” _The Dread Wolf must favour you, sharing his stories like this_.

Lavellan thought on it. Where to begin? Of course, he knew quite a few things already, but there was one he would never tire of. He closed his eyes, whispered, “Tell me of Arlathan.”

“Where love dwells,” Solas whispered back. “Envision isles amidst the clouds and evenings lit by crystal shards.”

He told them so gently, so carefully, as if he folded fragments of himself within his words, his melodic narrations sweetening the night. Lavellan’s eyes turned heavy.

When the sun rose over the hills and plains, two elves slept side by side after the lullabies of ancient stories, serene and quiet, the melancholy of the past momentarily forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You bet your ass Lavellan's going to push the limits of how much he can make Solas nervous without giving himself away.
> 
> Solas' "Envision isles amidst the clouds and evenings lit by crystal shards" line can be sung to the first bit of Hallelujah - a little tribute to how Patrick Weekes sometimes writes Solas' dialogue in Hallelujah cadence.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ma laim:** You are lost [⇧]  
> [2] **Dirtharemah junuem y ma tel’juhalamshiras. Din nadas:** Seeking the truth will hurt but you will not stop. The end is inevitable [⇧]  
> [3] **Banalas!:** I reject this [⇧]  
> [4] **Harem himem harellan:** The deceived became the deceiver[⇧]  
> [5] **Palahna em:** Try me [⇧]  
> [6] **Is ela:** He might [⇧]


	12. The weather turns foul

_beware what lurks within the mist—_

* * *

They had done good work in the Hinterlands. All the rifts were closed, all the bandits were taken care of, and there was now an extensive network of support for the locals and refugees. They repurposed abandoned strongholds and the villa into shelters or medical hubs, and construction of the sentry watchtowers were well under way.

Bull and Blackwall had major contributions to the construction efforts, Varric helped small businesses set themselves up or stabilised previous ones, Sera left hidden surprises in people’s homes ― extra food, extra blankets, extra supplies. Lavellan suspected she took them from old hideouts. Solas helped other mages with their healing efforts, Cassandra helped with the training of raw recruits who wished to join the Inquisition, and Lavellan oversaw and managed things. Occasionally hunted, helped wherever he could.

Leliana fed him steady updates on the Therinfal situation. So far, they had eight out of ten Orlesian noble houses allied with them and the remaining two had yet to answer.

Lavellan grew more restless. The longer they waited, the more Templars succumbed to red lyrium.

It wasn’t until the end of the week that the gate to Redcliffe village opened.

Cassandra hovered over him with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed as he prepared to depart.

“I am accompanying you,” she announced. No room for objections. “It may be a trap. Or it may not be. It is foolish to let you go alone.”

She was as immovable as the Frostback Mountains when she was like this so he relented.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Thank you for your concern.”

Bull sidled up beside her and rested his large arm on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

“I’m coming with you,” Bull said.

Lavellan laughed. “You’re going to scare them.”

He grunted, “Good. That’s the point. If anyone even thinks of doing anything suspicious, I’ll make them think twice. Or not even think about it at all. That works for me too.”

“So I have two scary bodyguards,” he said.

“Three,” said Solas from behind him. Lavellan startled less around Solas now so that was good, though he knew it had to do with the fact that he didn’t look like Fen’Harel. If he did, Lavellan suspected it would take an awful lot longer. Bull was alright too. He was an old hurt, still sharp, but more softened.

But it was Dorian who had made the killing blow.

Lavellan shook himself out of it.

“No offence Solas, but you’re not very scary,” said Bull.

Solas stared at him. “No? I am a mage who fights in a manner that they would be unfamiliar with.”

“If you stopped at ‘I am a mage,’ I would’ve still accepted it.”

Lavellan levelled them with a warning gaze. “We’re not there to fight, but alright. I suppose there’s no swaying any of you out of it?” he asked.

“No,” they answered in unison.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Do try and behave.”

Stilted conversation filled the walk to Redcliffe, all of them still getting accustomed to one another. How long would it take before Solas and Bull got onto the subject of the Qun and argued? However, the conversation wouldn’t go that far yet today. Solas and Lavellan fell quiet when they neared Redcliffe, and having sensed the sudden shift in atmosphere, Cassandra and Bull stopped conversing.

The Veil was strange here. It clustered in places, barely hung by a thread in others, like paper scrunched and straightened. You could see where the creases were. Where the pinched points were.

“Solas?” he called out behind him. “Is it just me or is the Veil strange?”

“No,” he replied, voice tight. “It is not just you.”

“Something feels weird alright,” said Bull.

Lavellan felt the pull of a rift. But no, this was strange too. Where was it?

They followed the road and met an Inquisition scout, sprinting and frantic. She and Lavellan collided and he steadied both of them before ensuring she was alright. Her shoulders shook.

“Demons,” she gasped. “Just in front of the Redcliffe gate. It’s not behaving right. I was going to go get reinforcements.”

Lavellan nodded. “I’ll seal it. Is there anybody injured?”

“We’ve got two unconscious and we moved them away from the fighting.”

“Alright. Go get the medics instead.”

He sent her off and they drew their weapons. They arrived at the Redcliffe rift and Lavellan squinted at the ground where rings of green or yellow lights flickered and scattered. The Veil was erratic here. Even more so than an ordinary Fade rift.

Think later, demons first.

They dove into battle. Lavellan tore through the shades overwhelming an Inquisition scout.

“Heads up, Mercy!”

Bull hurled a shade at him and Lavellan pierced it with both daggers before shoving it off and aside.

Lavellan evaded a wisp that a wraith flung his way and, in his haste, hadn’t realised he stepped foot within one of the green circles. His body slowed. Lavellan gasped, raised his arm. Felt like he waded through tar.

A cloud of green swirled beneath him. Terrors. Shit!

He ran for the edge of the circle. Too slow. As if he had forgotten how to run.

“Solas!” he called out. “Hit me! Now!” He wasn’t sure where Solas was, didn’t even know if he would hear Lavellan, but restrained Fade energy hit and flung him out of the circle. His body shuddered from the impact as he got up. The Terror stood where Lavellan had been, but it moved slow too.

Weird.

Cassandra situated herself on the edge of one of the yellow circles, her slashes quickening.

Three Terrors. One wraith―

Zero. Solas took care of it.

The Terror in the green circle prepared to burrow again and another Terror did the same. Green swirled beneath Lavellan. Oh for fuck―

He leapt out the way as both Terrors sprung from where he stood. The idiot demons crashed into one other and they lay stunned on the ground.

Lavellan breathed. Time to try something.

He held his hand out, felt the Veil.

Sundered it.

Green sparked above the Terrors. Crackled. Burst. Fire raced up his arm and he gasped. The sunder materialised as a small orb, paralysing the two Terrors and tearing them apart, forcing their fragments back into the Fade. Lavellan held on, gripped his left elbow.

Until none remained. He stopped holding the Veil open and the sunder closed.

Oh piss. He turned to the rift, locked on, and set about closing it. No pain from that one. Once the rifts closed, the rings on the ground vanished with it.

That left them in the silence of the aftermath.

Then, “What the _shit_ was that?” Bull squawked.

Solas joined them, frowning. “I believe the rift warped pockets of time around it. However―” he directed that frown at Lavellan― “ _you_ opened a rift. What did you do?”

“It― It wasn’t a rift. Rifts feel different. They tear the Veil by pulling from the sides. I punched a hole through it more like, and it sucked the demons back into the Fade. Like stabbing a piece of paper with a stick. The edges of the hole curl towards the direction of the stab.” He shook his hand out and made a face. “Hurts like a bitch too.”

Lost and cold and desperate after he fell from the avalanche in Haven, demons had attacked him in the caverns. He reached for the Veil in a bid to live and sundered it. Lavellan had forgotten how much it hurt though.

Bull grunted. “I’m really not liking the sound of anything going on here.”

“We’ll have to look into it,” Lavellan agreed.

The portcullis opened and they shared a look before pressing forward.

* * *

“Indentured to Tevinter?” Bull shook his head. “They’ve really gone and done it.”

Lavellan stared at the letter in his hand, handed to him by Magister Alexius’ son when he feigned weakness.

“Shall we go to the Chantry then?” he asked and stood.

Cassandra tugged on his coat and forced him back down.

“Are you serious?” she hissed. “That could be a trap.”

“Or an answer,” he said. This was _strange_. Fiona didn’t even recall meeting them at Val Royeaux and when the hell did this Magister Alexius swoop in? The Inquisition had been a presence here for weeks. Surely they would have heard. Then again, Redcliffe did lock itself away. The name rang a bell though. Alexius… Alexius…

It clicked. Alexius, of course! Dorian’s mentor! Which meant that time magic was somehow involved, and he wouldn’t put it past the magister. The rift at the gate was damning enough. He tucked the letter into his inner pocket and stood.

“Come on. If going to the Chantry turns out to be a trap then at least we have a chance of surviving. Not going at all means we lose the chance of finding an explanation.”

“Certainly an optimistic way of looking at it,” said Solas.

“You would march there anyway,” Cassandra muttered. “Better we come with you and increase your likelihood of surviving if it was a trap since you love your odds so much.”

“All my risks are sensible,” he protested.

“Yes,” said Solas, “such as sundering the Veil without knowing of its consequences.”

 _Well, he did._ “He gets it. Let’s go scary bodyguards.”

They left for the Chantry and Lavellan took a moment to examine Redcliffe. It was uneasy; awaiting a fall that may or may not come. The Veil was strange here too. Weakened, then patched, but not truly strengthened. Like slapping a plank of wood over a hole.

When they reached the Chantry, his mark flared and he paused at the door.

“Get ready,” he warned and they drew their weapons. Lavellan shouldered the door open and got a face full of demons.

“Oh good! You’re here,” chirped a familiar voice. And there in the middle of the Chantry, battering demons with his staff and his spells, was one Dorian Pavus. “Would appreciate it if you closed this!” He gestured at the rift and elbowed a shade in the process.

They leapt into battle. More green and yellow rings on the ground. Lavellan used it to their advantage and lured demons into the slow circles. Solas stood in a yellow circle and the output of his spells doubled. Lavellan slashed and slipped, vaulted over demons and flipped, sank his daggers into whichever unlucky demon was closest.

With the last of the demons defeated, Lavellan closed the rift. Green sparks showered him as he turned to finally meet Dorian again.

The man certainly knew how to do flashy introductions, he’d give him that.

He was a tad more youthful, hair short once more. They had shared one too many drunken nights wailing about their stupid, traitorous exes and making a complete mess of wherever they were in their misery. Dorian had also spat a minute-long stream of curses at Solas when they crossed paths at a ball in Minrathous. Lavellan had felt utterly vindicated.

Dorian had been a husk from continuous lack of sleep in the past, perpetually low on mana because he had to use magic continuously to sustain himself. Yet he had pushed on. Wanted to fight beside Lavellan for the final confrontation.

_“If I’m going to die, I may as well go spectacularly. I refuse to die in my sleep! How mortifying.” His joking expression fell, darkened into a threat. “I want to look that mad fool in the eye and show him he can try to kill us as much as he wants and we’ll keep coming back. Like pests and weeds.”_

_Well, who was Lavellan to deny such a request?_

“Fascinating,” murmured Dorian, eyes on Lavellan’s hand. “Do you know how that works?”

“Somewhat,” said Lavellan. “Like a lock and key. It can be one or the other, even both at the same time.” Solas looked at him strangely and Lavellan cleared his throat. Right. Not too knowledgeable. “Something like that anyway. Sometimes I can punch holes in the Veil and get certain people pissy.” Solas’ face soured. “So, mind sharing who you are?”

“Oh, certainly. Got ahead of myself.” He gave a small yet somehow overexaggerated bow and Lavellan’s lips twitched up. Only Dorian could pull that off. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Watch yourself,” said Bull, eye narrowed. “The pretty ones are always the worst.”

“Bull, if you’re trying to be insulting, try not calling him pretty,” Lavellan suggested.

“I meant it in an insulting way.”

Lavellan noted the day. _Friday, 9:41 Dragon, Bull called Dorian_ pretty _as an insult._

“Six months,” Lavellan said beneath his breath. “Hm, no. Maybe four.” He reconsidered the two of them and they stared at him in varying degrees of amusement and confusion. “No. Five.” Then he recalled that Bull may or may not betray them in the near future and Lavellan was back to scowling. “Fenedhis.”

Cassandra elbowed him subtly.

“Right,” said Lavellan. “Dorian, help me add a few things up. I arrive at Redcliffe and see a rift that distorts time and makes the Veil feel like an abandoned scrap of scrunched paper. Weird! Very well, maybe Grand Enchanter Fiona can help? No! She hasn’t even heard of us.” Lavellan clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “And in comes Magister Alexius telling us the rebel mages are now indentured to Tevinter. Great!” He stopped and clapped his hands. “And comes his son sending me cryptic notes directing me towards another Tevinter mage. Either the stew I ate this morning had something questionable in it or things really are shitting up.”

Cassandra groaned behind him and Dorian’s grin squinted his eyes.

“I’m afraid eating the questionable stew would have been more preferable,” said Dorian. “A little vomiting, a little nausea.” His smile faded and his expression turned troubled. “It is as you say. All those strange set of events? Alexius distorted time to accomplish them.”

Cassandra crossed her arms. “You expect us to believe that?”

“ _You_ saw the rifts, didn’t you? It sped time, it slowed time. It’s only limited to Redcliffe for now, but soon there will be more. Further from Redcliffe, until it spreads all over southern Thedas.” He shook his head, leaned on his staff. “Magic this unstable? It could very well unravel the world.”

Bull made a displeased collection of grumbles and settled himself on one of the toppled pews. Lavellan was inclined to agree.

“A hole in the sky and time travel. What’s next?” Bull muttered.

“An archdemon,” Lavellan said dryly. Well, sort of.

Bull threw his head back and groaned. “Well now there _will_ be because you said it, Mercy.” Oh, he was going to _hate_ Lavellan when they see Corypheus’ dragon.

“You are asking us to take on a lot of faith,” said Cassandra.

Dorian scowled. “I _know_ what I’m talking about. I apprenticed under Alexius, I helped develop this magic, but it never worked. It was pure theory.” He stroked his chin in thought. “But what I don’t understand is why he would go through such trouble just for a few hundred lackeys.”

“He didn’t do it for them.”

Cassandra’s sword was already drawn by the time the newcomer came into view. Lavellan eased her hand down. Felix Alexius joined them, grim-faced. Dorian clapped him on the back.

“Took you long enough. Did he get suspicious?”

Felix shook his head. “No, but maybe I shouldn’t have played the illness card. It was hard convincing him to leave my side.” He turned to Lavellan and his companions with a small tip of his head. “I’m sorry for the short notice and the lack of explanation, but we needed help. We didn’t know who else to turn to. The Inquisition seemed the only organisation interested in stopping the madness happening.”

“Are you implying this strange incidence is connected to the Conclave and the Breach?” asked Cassandra, sword lowered but not truly relaxed.

“I’ve thought about it, but if it’s true, then it’s even worse than I thought.” It may have been pretence earlier that he was ill, but that didn’t negate the existence of an illness. He was pallid, even in the dim light of the Chantry. Felix… Where had he heard that name before? Had Dorian mentioned him? “My father joined a Tevinter supremacist group called the Venatori. And I can tell you this: the things he did, he’s done to get to you.”

The Venatori. Of course it was the bloody fucking Venatori. Then this was related to Corypheus.

“A Blight ten years ago, a hole in the sky, a war between Templars and mages, the death of the Divine, time magic, and now cultists,” Lavellan listed. _And the rise of an Elvhen god as well as Lavellan’s death_ and _time travel!_ “Thedas is not having a good time.”

“Well it’s a good thing we’re here to try and make things less of a tragedy,” said Dorian.

“Or are you here to add to it?” asked Bull, disgruntlement dripping from his tone.

“Suspicious friends you have.” Dorian shot a sunny smile at Bull whose glower darkened.

“Just in case you stab us when we’re not looking and use our blood to power up an insane ritual.”

Dear Maker, were they already flirting?

“Says the Qunari spy,” said Lavellan.

“Hey, at least I _admitted_ it.”

Lavellan considered Felix. Dorian, he trusted, but he wasn’t sure what to make of Felix. “In any case, Felix, why tell us this? Why go against your father?”

Felix’s small sigh was almost inaudible and yet it was heavy. He suddenly looked older than he was. “I love my country and I love my father. But this? This is madness.” He met Lavellan’s gaze, eyes drained yet determined. “It is exactly because I love him that I want to stop him. I cannot watch him lose himself. Will not.”

The words tore visceral memories out and the world collapsed around Lavellan.

_“We still stop Solas. By any means necessary.”_

_He was furious._

_“You’re like a star,” Cole said, blue eyes the colour of a hidden glacier. “Sharp, shaking, shattering. Your gaze is bright and blinding, burning yourself and the space around you. You want to blind him too. The shadows come when your light fades and they fill the ashes but where does that leave you?”_

His companions continued with the interrogation but their voices faded as the seconds passed and the seconds became years and he was before the Exalted Council. Orlais was the sycophant drowning him, Fereldan the hounds mauling him. Lavellan was angry. Inside of him, it festered, pressing up against the boundaries of himself. He didn’t want to be here. Not when everything was raw and his arm didn’t move right and the remnants of pain still crawled over his shoulders.

 _He'd saved all of them. Every single Maker-damned one of them even when he hadn't asked for it. They repaid him with their simpering, their disdain, their indifference._ I should have let all of you **burn**.

_He dropped the thick writ on the floor and relished the shocked silence its heavy fall caused._

_“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said and walked off. “I have a world to save. Again.”_

_Solas would see the world razed for his precious empire? Fine, Lavellan would rally against him with all he had._

_So Solas was a god? Very well then, Lavellan will become wrath incarnate._

_Rage was all he had._

Metal flooded his mouth. Thick and rushed up his throat, up and up and up from the hole in his heart.

It was here and now was then. But when was then and which was now?

Slipping, slipping, where had the world gone?

His heart swelled and shrivelled all at once and no, he didn't want to be rage or wrath or fury. It had hollowed him. He didn't want to be a star. He didn't want to be the saviour of the world. He just wanted to be Mahanon. Mahanon, Mahanon, who was Mahanon supposed to be and did Mahanon even exist?

_Please, please, I don’t want to be gone. Don’t let me be a statue carrying bowls of fire, watching the weeping prostrate before me._

_I want to be me._

_I want to be not this. Let me fade in peace._

“I am here. You are here,” murmured a voice. Lavellan latched onto it. There was a peculiar sound by his ear. Blocks of wood hitting each other.

“Where is here?” he whispered back. _Please, give me answers._

“Do you smell incense?”

Incense? Lavellan took a shaky breath but there was only metal. He trembled. “No. Metal.”

 _Clack_.

There were other voices but they were beyond a wall of suffocation and water. His hand reached. Something. _Anything, gods, just―_

Something warm wrapped around it. Lavellan squeezed, released a shuddery exhale when it remained solid and stable and _there_. In his hand.

“…urgent… Return… Excuse us.” It was the same voice. Lilting, sombre, melodious, carrying the weight of almost-forgotten sins. “Mahanon? You’re holding my hand, and I am going to lead you out. What’s your name?”

“Mahanon.”

“Very good. Can you see the door in front of you?”

It was there, a central point in his tunneled vision. “Yes.”

“Will you touch it?”

Lavellan held his unoccupied hand up to it. Sanded, lacquered. Heavy and solid.

“Very good. Will you push it open? Be careful, it may be considerably brighter outside.”

He heeded the request and pushed, his muscles waking. Light slipped between the widening gap and there was a brief period where the world was white before it all returned, little by little. The sky was blue, and he could smell the water, hear the call of merchants, the ambient chatters. Birds flew from trees, patches of green at the forefront. Sunlight warmed his skin. Lavellan closed his eyes and took a breath, still trembling, but there was no metal in his nose. Only the water, the trees.

After a while of silence, the dulcet voice asked again, “Where are you?”

“Here.”

“Where is here?”

Lavellan opened his eyes, saw the docks, the small boats, the water. Registered he was sitting down. The time magic, the rifts, the indenture to Tevinter, Dorian, Felix, Venatori. It returned.

“Redcliffe village.”

“Well done.”

He knew whose hand he held, but he didn’t want to look. Couldn’t. Not yet. So he watched the water, watched the gulls.

“What’s your name?”

“Mahanon.”

“Of which clan?”

“Lavellan.”

“Very good.” He sounded so gentle. Patient. Lavellan licked his lip and tasted blood. He wiped it away and his fingertip came away red. “Do you know who I am?”

Lavellan fiddled with the edges of his coat. “Solas.”

“Yes.”

He still gripped Solas’ hand as if the world would collapse again if he let go. Lavellan knew there was something ironic in there, somewhere. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. At one point, Lavellan took out the stone from Haven and let its weight rest in his other hand, waited until his extremities ceased shaking.

There was a cloud shaped like a fox. Irregular ears ― it’s right was larger than its left. Its tail was long, its coat filled with pockets of fluff.

Two young boys raced each other on their small boats.

After more time, he finally mustered the courage to look at Solas who was watching the race between the two boys with detached amusement.

“He’s going to fall,” said Solas.

Lavellan blinked, then watched as well. One of the boys was paddling harder to catch up but he rocked his small boat too much. So much so that it was in danger of capsizing.

Lavellan hummed. “Maybe not.”

“No? He’s rocking too much, and his friend’s paddling has turned the water turbulent ahead of him. He best retreat lest he capsize.”

Lavellan squinted. The boy seemed to be learning. His off-sync rowing gained a steadier rhythm until he didn’t rock the boat so much.

“He’s learning,” he said. The boy crowed with victory and settled into his rhythm, flying over the turbulent waters. “He found his balance in the turbulence. He’s won.”

Sure enough, he caught up to his friend and surpassed him. Lavellan leaned back, smug. There was a stone wall behind him and he finally took better stock of his surroundings. He was on a wooden bench, at the edge of the village near the docks. How they got here and how he didn’t register that they had walked here in the first place eluded him.

The boy’s friend fell in the water instead and a surprised laugh escaped Lavellan. What a twist. The boy returned though, cackling, and offered a hand to his friend. They returned to the docks together on the boat, tugging the capsized boat behind them by a rope.

He grinned at Solas. “Told you. He learned.”

Solas sighed, but smiled as well. “So it seems.”

Their hands were still clasped. Lavellan wasn’t sure how that made him feel. It was a warm, sweaty hold, courtesy of Lavellan’s sweaty palms. He eased his grip. Solas followed course and so his hand was free, cooling from the wind.

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan mumbled again. “Thank you.”

Solas leaned his staff against the bench and angled his body to face Lavellan.

“What triggered it?” he asked.

Lavellan’s head was fuzzy. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember. Felix was speaking and then… Oh piss, Felix! We just left and there were important things to discuss―”

Solas eased him back. “Stay. Cassandra and the Iron Bull are still there. They are capable enough on their own.”

He paled. Did everyone see him like this? He sat back and buried his head in his hands, clutching his hair.

“Did they see me utterly lose my shit?” Lavellan whimpered.

“You did not,” said Solas with a vehemence that surprised him. “Mahanon, there are traumatic experiences which can displace your balance and shock you, manifesting in ways you cannot control or even comprehend. There is nothing to apologise for.”

“I―” Solas’ eyes were set, blazing as if he were in another of his impassioned arguments. Lavellan still couldn’t place what he was feeling. “Thank you,” he settled on instead of deciphering the tangle of emotions.

Solas nodded and some of the passion eased. “And to answer your question, the Iron Bull noticed something was amiss. I suspect Cassandra as well. I cannot be sure of our new Tevinter friends.”

“How did they take our sudden departure?”

“I said something urgent has come up. That is all. It is none of their business otherwise.”

Lavellan bit his lip but it was sore and it reopened the cut he made. “Fenedhis,” he grumbled. Sweet gods, he was exhausted. He slumped. “Well, I need to write to Leliana about this interesting turn of events. Let’s meet up with Cassandra and Bull again.”

“You can still take a few moments, if you’d like.”

“No, I’m― I’ve calmed. I can think again, thank you. Focusing on our current situation helps me press forward.”

Solas pressed his lips into a considering line, before he stood and took his staff. “Very well. I told them we’ll meet them at the tavern.”

They walked back and Lavellan felt like a new bruise, tender to the touch. Wrecked and tired. Or perhaps that was the lack of sleep. Maybe he could take a nap later.

“You didn’t seem shaken at the possibility of time travel,” said Solas.

“There’s a hole in the sky and I saw the rifts distorting time. I can hardly draw the line at time travel.” This could enlighten him about his situation. Time travel was possible, he had it confirmed, but what were its adverse effects? How did it work? Did it erase the future he had been a part of? Did he return to a point in the past which would imply that certain events were fixed? Did he wake up in a reality not his own? So many implications.

“This fascinates you,” Solas observed.

Lavellan smiled. It was small, but more sincere. A victory that he’d take.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Your eyes gain a certain gleam when you fall silent in thought.”

He did? “Is that a bad thing?”

“On the contrary.” Solas smiled. “I quite enjoy it.”

Lavellan paused. Warmth curled within his chest ― a gentle flame, not the conflagration of fury. Yet it never took much to begin a wildfire. He just wasn’t sure what kind of wildfire this was.

“You enjoy me being quiet or the gleam in my eyes?” he asked.

Solas fell silent and sped up.

“Hey, hey Solas, wait! You like it when I shut up or you like it when I think? Argh, both of those sound highly unflattering.”

Solas laughed.

When Cassandra and Bull met up with them, Lavellan hadn’t realised how tense he was. Bull disappeared momentarily and came back with a tankard that Lavellan assumed was Bull's drink, until he set it in front of Lavellan. He blinked owlishly at Bull.

But Bull sidled in his seat and lapsed into a recount of what Lavellan had missed. Cassandra contributed, and the absolute normalcy they maintained made Lavellan teary for other reasons. He sipped at the mug. Just plain water. He clutched at it, otherwise he’d cry. Cassandra stood up at some point and came back with a warm broth which she placed in front of him. For him.

It smelled nice.

Lavellan cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody give this poor boy a hug or some warm blankets, goddamn.
> 
> Because here comes the future shenanigans.


	13. No salvation within these walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pride month. Have some angst.

_rail against the destined—_

* * *

They had the ten Orlesian houses.

They had also received a grand invitation from Magister Alexius, addressed personally to Lavellan, to come to Redcliffe Castle tomorrow to _negotiate_ regarding the mages’ fate.

“Yeah, it’s a trap,” said Lavellan. Didn’t bother reading the rest of the overblown letter. He threw the letter on top of the map where Therinfal Redoubt had been marked, along with the letters of confirmation from the ten Orlesian houses. He looked up at his advisors. “How immediately can we get the Orlesian houses to Therinfal?”

“It will likely be a day’s journey,” said Josephine.

He looked at Leliana. “How fast can your birds fly?”

“Fast,” she said. “They will have any message you wish to send today. And we’ve warned them to be ready at a moment’s notice.”

“Good. Because they’re leaving today.”

Josephine stared at him. “You plan to set them on the same day? What if Redcliffe goes wrong?”

“Which is why we send a number of Inquisition representatives,” he said and turned to Cassandra. “Will you lead them, Seeker?”

“ _Me_?” she asked. “No, I will accompany you to Redcliffe.”

He shook his head. “You have ties with the Templars. Maybe the Lord Seeker won’t listen to you, but he does not represent the other Templars. Remember, the nobles are there to apply pressure, and you being there applies even more. I’m sending Madame Vivienne with you as well as Sera, Blackwall, and Varric.”

She frowned. “Vivienne I understand, and perhaps even Blackwall. Why Sera and Varric?”

Lavellan grinned. “A dash of chaos.” Yes, but he needed them there. To withstand the wave of red Templars since he recalled what a stressful situation that ordeal had been. In-fighting, then defending the Great Hall as they searched for veterans _and_ lyrium caches _and_ found out about assassination plots against the Empress had stretched them thin. Not to mention the Envy demon. Nasty little fucker.

This time, he’d be ready.

But that was Therinfal. He had no idea what to expect from Redcliffe.

“Now remains the problem with Redcliffe,” said Cullen, scowling. “We know it’s a trap, but Redcliffe Castle is defensible. It has never fallen despite the thousands of assaults it has endured. We cannot possibly breach it.”

Lavellan shook his head. “No, we can’t. We’ve declared for no one, but if you’re going to split hairs ― which politicians love doing ― we’re technically an Orlesian organisation. If this _Orlesian_ organisation’s forces marched right into Ferelden? That’s asking for war. We’re already dealing with one, I’d rather not start another, thank you.”

“He is correct,” sighed Josephine. The candle on her board burned low. Her hair was neat as ever, but there were slight shadows beneath her eyes. “But if we do not respond, we have a hostile foreign power on our doorstep.”

“Well Mahanon can’t just walk in!” Cullen protested.

“Not without a present, I can’t,” said Lavellan, and an idea sparked. “Something like… agents of the Inquisition infiltrating the castle while I gather all his attention and forces on me.”

“You want to be bait?” asked Cullen.

“I make for a very good bait.”

Leliana perked. “Wait. There’s a hidden passage in the castle. An escape route for the family.”

The idea slowly came together. "We send your agents through,” he said.

“That’s a big risk,” said Cullen.

Josephine groaned. “We never get anywhere with you.”

“I’m being _cautious_.”

The door burst open and Dorian came striding in as if he were the Maker’s greatest gift to mankind, a breathless soldier following closely. Poor thing. Dorian was a maelstrom when he had his mind set.

“This man says he has information against the Magister, Commander,” he huffed. The advisors eyed Dorian and Cullen nodded at the soldier in dismissal.

“Pardon me, I couldn’t help but overhear,” said Dorian. “Something about an infiltration?”

Lavellan answered because he knew nobody would. “Thinking of sneaking spies in through a hidden passage. Thoughts?”

“They’ll fry themselves and alert Alexius,” he said. “And you either die or something worse. A joyous, momentous occasion for everybody involved. Fortunately, you have me. I can dismantle those wards without a cinch! So naturally, I’m tagging along.”

Cassandra glowered. “You cannot just invite yourself.”

“I just did.”

Lavellan cut in before they could argue. “In the event that something goes wrong with the hidden passage, I think it wise for me to have a back-up.”

“Who did you have in mind?” asked Cullen.

“The giant Qunari,” said Lavellan. He’d already worked the logistics out last night. “And our resident apostate.” There was something ridiculously hilarious about the fact that the people he would bring to guard his back were the ones who had betrayed him. Fucking ridiculous. But for now, the Qun demanded Bull be here, help them, and so Lavellan would take full advantage of that. Bull was a good fighter. It wasn’t in either’s best interests to off Lavellan so early.

“Solas?” asked Cassandra.

“I’m sending you and Varric to Therinfal so there goes two people who I feel comfortable with in a fight. Solas has been fighting with us since the first day. I’ve gotten used to his fighting style and how we work together. If things sour, I’ll be more at ease.” Lavellan shrugged. “Besides, I like his barriers.”

She considered that. “His… barriers.”

“Can you tell?” asked Dorian.

“Yes.” Then came up with a half-truth. “My sister is a mage. She practiced barriers on me and I could tell when it was shit.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Right then! We’ve got our plans.” Lavellan outlined everybody’s roles and tasks and asked to increase the forces for Therinfal, disguised it as uneasiness from the nobles’ lack of martial prowess.

Cullen gave him a look. “And you? You’ll be in the most danger with this plan. We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this.”

Lavellan smiled at him gravely. “Commander, I’m volunteering.”

* * *

It went to shit. Of course it went to shit. That was the summary of his life.

They had met with Alexius as was agreed, and when the ruse was up, Alexius attempted… something. Lavellan wasn’t sure what, but he opened a strange rift with his amulet which sucked Lavellan and Dorian into it. He had a feeling the only reason they were alive was because of Dorian interfering with the spell.

For now though, they were no longer in the throne room.

Lavellan kicked the Venatori guard off his daggers and their corpse fell with a splash into the waters of the flooded cell they had found themselves in. Large lyrium crystals infested the walls, grew in corners like cursed cobwebs, and bathed the cell with a red glow. Discordant harmonies echoed in his head.

The water soaked through his clothes and left him soggy and miserable on top of being displaced in time. He rummaged through the dead Venatori’s coats and pulled out a key.

“What did you do to the amulet?” he asked Dorian.

“I’m not even sure where to start with that question,” he said. “Think of it this way: I threw a rock at a knife headed towards a target. The knife may have missed the target but it sure hit something else.” He glanced around them. “We passed through a temporal rift, it seems. I’m just not sure where it’s taken us.” Lavellan unlocked the cell with the key. He examined the stone of the walls.

“Old Fereldan architecture,” he said. “We’re likely still in the castle.”

Dorian hummed in agreement. “If it’s not a matter of where…”

“A matter of when, then,” Lavellan finished.

“You seem awfully calm about all this.”

He shrugged. “I do the panicking inside. More efficient. Let’s look around, see if we can figure out how to get back. Somehow.”

“I was going to say something heroic. Impressive, even. Something like, ‘Don’t worry, I will protect you,’” he said and chuckled. “But you’re not even boggled by the notion of time travelling.”

“Well I appreciate the sentiment.”

So the temporal displacements were somehow connected to the Fade. He supposed all magic was connected to the Fade, but this was different, as if it employed the Fade’s ever changing nature as its own force rather than shaping the energy into something else. Not that he could ask Dorian. It required too much time they didn’t have explaining why Lavellan knew so much about the Fade. He doubted he could blame it on his sister this time.

They trawled through what seemed to be the castle’s underbelly. The dungeons, at least. Red lyrium burst from the walls, shrouded the space with an eerie, red light. Passages were blocked by crystals, though describing them as columns fit better. Dorian winced. The red lyrium’s elegy drifted beneath the Well’s whispers; blood diffusing in water.

“Alexius made quite the mess,” said Dorian.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan asked. “These give you a headache, right?”

“I’ll be better when we find out what’s going on. This is hardly an improvement from the tackiest carvings of wolves and dogs that filled this place.”

They arrived at a cavernous room with a raised metal grate as a platform, suspended from the ceiling by great chains. Two doors on either side and one ahead but the walkway to that was raised. A perilous drop below. There were four Venatori guards.

Lavellan fought them, even knocked one off the platform, and almost fell off himself.

Dorian preferred lightning. Unlike Vivienne who was cutting and precise or Solas who was great support and crowd-control, Dorian’s damage was slow-acting poison. You thought you were alright and the next―

The final Venatori charging towards Lavellan screamed and collapsed. Faint flickers of violet energy faded.

And the next, dead.

“So,” said Dorian, “left, or right?”

“Was going to suggest splitting up but that’s insanely foolish.”

“Quite.”

“Left then?”

Dorian glanced around him with detached interest. “No, I was wondering if we could perhaps spread a blanket here. Have some finger treats. Tiny pastries, maybe?”

“Bottle of wine, cheese wedges, wicker basket.”

“So long as it isn’t goat cheese. Goat cheese disagrees with my delicate digestion.”

Lavellan shook his head with a smile and they explored the left door. More stairs, more cells. Most were empty and the red lyrium overtook some, bent the metal of the cells until he wasn’t sure where metal and stone ended and lyrium began. Dorian tapped one of the crystals with the end of his staff.

“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Dorian.

“A way forward I suppose. Or something to tell us what’s going―”

“Who’s there?” gasped a small, struggling voice.

Lavellan stopped. Slowly approached the furthest cell.

Grand Enchanter Fiona looked up, made a shuddery noise while Lavellan made a strangled one. His stomach churned. Red lyrium. Around her. Rather, _from_ her. Her skin puckered where it grew, the cloth of her robes assimilating with the mineral. Her lower body may as well be completely lyrium.

She had the look of someone on the verge of tears but could never cry because they’d spent their tears and more.

“You’re alive,” she wheezed and leaned her head against the wall. It was the only thing she could do. The only thing she could move. “I saw you… disappear.”

“Is red lyrium growing out of you?” Lavellan asked, bile in his throat.

Fiona whimpered. “Red lyrium is poison. The longer you spend around it, the more you become it, and when you die, they harvest your corpse for more.”

Lavellan wasn’t sure whether he wanted to stab Corypheus or vomit on him. He had happened upon the red lyrium victims in Emprise du Lion, humans turned to living mines, but he never saw the actual process. Happened upon their husked-out bodies already. This was…

Dorian closed his eyes, silent as he no doubt suppressed a shiver. He made himself look back at Fiona.

“What is the date? Please, it’s very important,” said Dorian.

Fiona considered this. “I’ve lost track of time long ago. But I overheard one of the guards mention it was Harvestmere. 9:42.”

He balked. “A year and two months?”

“Can you stop this from happening?” Fiona asked. “Alexius serves a god. The Elder One. More powerful than the Maker. Nobody has challenged him and lived.”

Lavellan was right _here_. Corypheus was no god. He didn’t come close to Solas, and Lavellan didn’t consider Solas much of a god either.

He snarled, “Well then he’s about to get a nasty surprise.”

“The only way to get back is if we use Alexius’ amulet. I could make it open a rift at the exact place and it could maybe send us back,” said Dorian.

“Good,” said Fiona.

“I said maybe. It could also turn us into paste.”

“ _Try_.” She took a shaky breath. “Your spymaster is here. And so were the two who accompanied you on the day of your… death.”

Dorian and Lavellan shared a look. 

“Go,” she urged. “Before the Elder One finds out you’re here.”

Lavellan couldn’t move, couldn’t bear to leave her like this. She smiled softly.

“You cannot take me with you,” she said, as if reading his mind. Though, he supposed it might be painted over his face instead. Fiona looked down. “If I may ask you for a favour? There is not much life left in me, if at all. I cannot move, I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot even weep.” Her chuckle was rasping, broken. “Please. Will you see me through?”

“See you― Oh.”

“I understand if it is a heavy request. Simply a favour for a woman who has lived too long and seen too much. I understand if you would prefer not to.”

Lavellan clenched his fists, then relaxed. He unsheathed a dagger. The cell wasn’t even locked. The smugness of that statement had him gripping the dagger tighter as he opened the door. Fiona smiled at him, eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’m sorry.” He gently held the back of her head, had done this plenty of times before. Mercy kills. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

“Pain no longer means anything to me,” she said. “But I appreciate it.”

Lavellan drove his dagger into her neck and severed her spinal cord.

He had stopped believing in the Elvhen gods, or rather lost faith in them. Another part of him he had lost. But still, he murmured, “Falon’Din guide you.”

He allowed themselves a moment of silence before he marched out the cell door.

“Let’s find the others,” Lavellan said. “I’d like to have a word with Magister Alexius.”

Dorian was silent as he followed.

They searched the upper cells.

“Five hundred bottles of beer on the wall, five hundred bottles of beer,” sang a deep and familiar yet distorted voice. “Take one down, pass it around―” Iron Bull turned when he heard footsteps and stopped short at the sight of them. Lavellan paled. Bull looked ill. Lyrium crawled all over the walls and he recalled Fiona’s state, how the lyrium grew out of her. The energy around the lyrium lingered around Bull too but no crystals grew from his skin, no traces of lyrium save for the red glow in his irises.

They stared at each other in dead silence.

“Four hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall?” offered Lavellan.

“What the fuck?” Bull turned around and faced the wall, muttering, “Great. The visions started. One… Two…” He turned back around. Lavellan and Dorian were still there. “Alright. You’re supposed to be dead. You were there, then gone. Poof. Burn mark on the ground.”

“We didn’t die,” said Dorian. “We were sent forward in time. This is our future.”

Bull snarled at him. “Well this is _my present_ and, in _my past_ , I saw you both die.”

“You’ve been poisoned by red lyrium?” Lavellan asked as he opened the door.

Bull stepped forward and Lavellan saw how some of the veins around his neck glowed red.

“Yeah… This whole room was full, did you know? Every single one of us exposed to red lyrium so we can be living mines.” He laughed. His voice was _wrong_. “They all died. All but me.”

Lavellan tasted ash. “Solas?”

“I don’t know. We were separated. Probably dead.”

Shit, shit.

“Come with us,” said Dorian. “We’re going to fight Alexius.”

He scoffed. “Wanna see the other tricks he’s learned?” He stared Dorian down. “Hey ‘Vint, did you know your _future_ is one where the Empress of Orlais died? The one where your precious mentor’s Elder One had an army of demons that he marched all across Thedas?” Ah. _That_ demon army. He had seen the plans through Envy’s taunts but this? This was the reality. This was what it would have been if Corypheus had succeeded.

Dorian bristled. “And so we’re trying to stop it. Are you coming or are you going to spend the last few miserable moments of your life snivelling in a cell?”

The Iron Bull gave Dorian a reassessing look, then grunted.

“Fine. Fight Alexius. I can get behind that.” He kicked open a cell door and grabbed an axe propped up against the wall. “Let’s get going.”

They came back to the cavernous room. The walkway to the northern door lowered and more Venatori guards poured through. They had a spellbinder among them. Bull cackled, ripped into the wave of soldiers while Lavellan unslung his bow and aimed at the spellbinder.

Who spotted him.

He dodged the spell thrown his way.

Dorian hit the binder with electricity. Lavellan shot the arrow into the binder’s throat. Done.

Bull cursed. Staggered and fell, leaning on his axe for support.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan sprinted over. There was a gash on Bull’s torso and it wasn’t deep, but a sheen of sweat coated his skin. Lavellan put his hand against Bull’s forehead. His skin was cold. “Bull―”

“I’m _fine_. Just rusty.”

“You’re not. Shit, we shouldn’t have forced you to―”

“Mercy, I’m fine.” Lavellan faltered at the nickname and Bull gave him a steady look. “I want to fight. It’s the only thing I have left. Let me.”

And Lavellan couldn’t take that from him. He sighed.

“Alright,” he relented. “But you have to let Dorian patch you up.”

Bull grumbled.

Dorian hummed, unimpressed. “A little gratitude will do you good.”

“Just do it.”

Lavellan stood. “I’ll search the other cells. Maybe I’ll find Solas. Or Leliana.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Bull and Lavellan knew he didn’t mean it to be cruel. It was kind, even.

“My expectations are always low,” said Lavellan and he made his way to the right door, inspecting the cells. Solas couldn’t be dead. He was Solas. Surely the red lyrium wouldn’t have gotten to him so fast. He was so powerful. The blighted blade Lavellan used to kill him was much more potent than this version of red lyrium.

Then again, Solas was still weakened from his slumber.

Lavellan chewed on his lip and opened the door.

And there in the closest cell lay Solas, eyes closed, leaning against the wall. Red lyrium pulsed on the walls around him and for a heart-stopping moment, Lavellan feared the worst.

Until Solas opened his eyes and their gazes met.

They stayed like that for the longest time, staring at each other as the silence yawned.

Then, an unimpressed huff from Solas.

“Ah, and which are you? Regret? Desire? Deceit, perhaps?” He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Or perhaps I have finally descended into madness.”

A tumult of questions and emotions battled for attention in his mind and Lavellan cycled through relief, terror, worry, anger. He unlocked Solas’ cell.

Solas opened his eyes again, frowning at Lavellan.

“Not a demon,” said Lavellan. “I am the very real deal, unfortunately for you. I’m sure you would have appreciated a hallucination better.”

Solas stared.

Lavellan gripped the metal bars. Tried again.

“I’m real,” he affirmed. “Terrible for you because I come bearing responsibilities.”

“I have grown weary of hoping, Mahanon,” murmured Solas. “If you truly are him.”

His voice was wrong too. Reverbed but not in a harmonious way. Slightly behind, a beat off, and never in one consistent area. Red shimmered in Solas’ eyes and glowing lyrium veins crawled over his shoulder, over one side of his neck, crept beneath his jaw.

“How can I convince you? Would you like me to call Bull? We got him out. He can come swinging in and you two can bond over how both your eyes have this reddish glow now!” His forced cheer came out choked. “Creators, Solas, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

Solas hung his head and they stayed like that for a beat longer before he rose and took hesitant steps towards him. Shambled more like. Lavellan clenched his fists, unease settling in him at the sight of Solas so broken. Where had the proud creature gone? The man who had walked the path of death with his head raised and his heart hardened? What could have broken him so? How could he― Corypheus was a child! How could he have been broken so by a child when he didn't even bat an eye when he controlled Lavellan?

He reached his hand out and rested it on Lavellan’s cheek. As if confirming he was no mirage. Not an image conjured by a dying mind, not the Fade or red lyrium or a demon’s trick. Lavellan stayed still. Let Solas search for whatever it was he looked for in Lavellan’s eyes.

“I saw you―” Solas dropped his hand and shook his head. “You were gone.”

“Displaced in time,” he explained because that was easier than addressing the rising pitch of fury. “We passed through a temporal rift, and now we’re here. One year in the future.”

And Solas sighed as if he couldn’t quite believe he was doing this again.

“Can you reverse the process?” he asked. “You can return and obviate the events of the last year.”

He gritted his teeth. The fury roared in his ears.

“How could you let him do this?” he ended up asking, almost hysteric. “I don’t― You’re more powerful than this, how could you let him win?” He knew it was unfair. Solas did not have Fen’Harel’s strength yet, and oh gods, he just wanted Solas to show Corypheus how pathetic his attempts at godhood was, which was confusing enough. It wasn’t like he wanted Solas to win. He just hated Corypheus more than he did Solas.

Solas made a disgruntled sound. “I beg your pardon. He has an army of demons! Did you expect me to last against that?”

“ _You_ had an army of demons,” Lavellan snapped. “And spirits, and pretty much every single elf you could convince. You were _hell_ to go up against but right now, I’m not sure which I prefer. This future, or yours? All I know is I’m sick of you shits thinking you can bring back a glorious past at the cost of the present. _My_ present. _Our_ present.” He grabbed Solas by the collar and slammed him against the metal bars. His hands shook. Everything in him shook. “I am _sick_ of self-proclaimed gods thinking they know what’s best for everyone. Never mind the actual sods living in the world they’re stepping over, right?”

Solas was speechless. Ha! Look at that! The git was _speechless_. Perhaps the Maker was real if miracles like this could persist!

“Mahanon―” Solas took a moment, though it wasn’t as long as Lavellan would have liked before understanding dawned. “You know,” he breathed, eyes wide.

And just like that, whatever tense strings holding Lavellan up slackened and his fury left. He slumped, rested his head on Solas’ shoulder.

“Fen’Harel ghilana em[1],” he muttered with a dispirited laugh. “You’re a right bastard, I hope you know.”

“How did you find out?”

Lavellan lifted his head, met Solas’ gaze. Both so sorrowful. “Did you ever wonder why I took to the idea of time travel so well?”

Solas searched for the answers once more and Lavellan let him work it out.

His lips pursed. “You are from the future. A different future than this.”

Lavellan stayed quiet.

“The man you said I reminded you of. Was he…?”

“You.” Lavellan smiled ruefully. “Fen’Harel, Solas, another name. Whichever was you, all of you hurt me.”

Solas looked away.

Lavellan stepped back, cold in the absence of his anger. “Come. We’re fighting Alexius. Then we’re going back to the past.”

“What will you do about me when you return?”

It was Lavellan’s turn to look away. “I thought about killing you.”

“Why have you not?”

He gave Solas a chilling yet steadfast stare.

“Because I’m not you.”

* * *

Bull and Dorian looked up once they returned. The gash on Bull’s torso seemed to be alright now. Lavellan walked over to the dead spellbinder and wrenched his staff off him and shoved it at Solas’ chest without a word.

“And this is why they shouldn’t be left alone,” Bull grumbled at Dorian. “But _noo_ , it’s all _sit down you giant oaf or I’ll tear you another gash on your left side_!”

Dorian prodded the freshly healed wound with his staff.

“Let’s find Leliana,” said Lavellan and walked.

“Are you alright?” asked Dorian.

“I’ll be better when we win.”

“Ha!” crowed Bull. “Well said. I’ve been listening, nothing better to do, and guards talk. Red should be nearby and― Solas, what’re you doing?”

Lavellan turned. Solas had produced something out of his pocket and was in the middle of… tying it to the staff. Lavellan’s mouth dried and a lump lodged in his throat. The small wooden blocks. He paused, trying to remember the next step.

“Over,” instructed Lavellan, heart sore. “Then through.”

Solas gave him a small smile and finished the knot.

“You don’t need to do that,” said Lavellan.

“What was the Dalish saying? May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps?” Solas asked. The blocks would warn that the Wolf was nearby, provide the time to escape.

Lavellan snorted, smile faint. “He already did.”

Dorian blinked. “Interesting.”

They continued through the castle. Lavellan heard Leliana first. A hard slap, followed by a cry of pain, and he was already sprinting. He shouldered past the door and there was Leliana, held up by her hands, feet barely brushing the floor, her torturer pressing a knife into her throat. Lavellan drew his dagger.

Leliana pulled herself up and wrapped her legs around her torturer’s neck once he was distracted by Lavellan’s arrival. Let him struggle.

He slumped to the ground dead.

Lavellan sheathed his dagger. This woman terrified him.

“You’re alive,” she rasped. Her face was scarred, skin leathery, some wounds still fresh. He knew better than to ask and instead focused on setting her free with the key he found on the dead torturer.

“Sent forward in time,” said Lavellan. “I’d explain but I suspect that’d bore you.”

She retrieved her weapons from a chest in the corner. “I don’t care for the explanation,” she said. “You’re after Alexius, I wager.” He nodded. “Then he’s likely holed himself up in his chambers. Let’s go.”

“You aren’t curious at all about what happened?” asked Dorian.

“No.” She scowled at Dorian and Lavellan. “This may not be real to you, but it was real to us. The things we faced, experienced? Real. Save your explanations.”

“We didn’t say that,” Dorian protested.

“No, and you don’t need to. This is some dark future you hope will never come to pass. You did not live through it. We’re nothing but shadows to you.”

Lavellan flinched minutely, glanced at Solas who was already looking at him.

Nothing but shadows.

Lavellan pressed onwards with his heart in his throat.

They fought through the castle and entered the courtyard where Lavellan witnessed the true extent of the damage Corypheus wrought.

Skies of hazy emerald. Like the shroud of the Fade. In fact, it almost looked like the Fade with the slabs of stone and concrete suspended between it and the ground. The Veil around them was _wrong_ too. Not torn, but hanging by a thread, littered with perforations that it was barely much of anything at all. And the Breach was a devouring heart, the nucleus of a ravenous thing.

“It’s everywhere,” murmured Dorian.

Rifts and demons and Venatori swarmed them. He closed rift after rift after rift, and the mark warmed.

Solas noticed Lavellan rubbing his hand after they finally weathered past the last wave.

“Are you alright?” asked Solas.

“Only you could bear the mark and live,” he echoed. “Also, I’d forgotten what a threat Corypheus was. I suppose you were still the bigger threat of the two. This, I will admit, wasn’t something I thought Corypheus could orchestrate.”

“Too weak?”

“Too uncreative.”

“Ah.” He stared at Lavellan’s hand. “I would ease it, but the red lyrium has bled into my magic. I fear the effects.”

“Last time you mixed red lyrium and your magic, things went to shit. So no, don’t try.”

Solas looked appalled. “I used red lyrium?”

“ _You’re_ offended?”

“Something must have gone wrong if I had resorted to red lyrium.”

Lavellan frowned. “Your orb broke.”

Solas stared at him. “Ah. Yes. That would do it.”

“Then you left without a word.” Lavellan smiled but it was hollow and he didn’t linger to catch Solas’ reaction. They pushed through the courtyard and re-entered the castle. Lavellan searched through the rooms until they happened upon Alexius’ chambers. Devoid of Alexius. His attention fell on the open book upon a table.

Lavellan examined it. “Alexius’ journal,” he told the group.

Dorian peered over Lavellan’s shoulder. “What’s it say?”

He read through and summarised for the group. “He was trying to travel back in time, apparently before Felix’s caravan was attacked by… Darkspawn.” It all clicked. He looked at Dorian. “Felix is blighted.” Dorian’s grim expression was answer enough.

Lavellan remembered now. Felix. Shortly after arriving at Skyhold, Dorian had received a letter informing him of his friend’s death. It had been Felix. Lavellan clenched his fists and pressed forward.

“The Elder One wants Alexius to undo what happened at the Conclave, but since the time magic is made possible by the Breach, it can’t go back to a time when the Breach didn’t exist. The Elder One is angry and…” Lavellan paused at the passage, read it over again just to confirm. He looked up at his group. “And he’s coming. Here. To deal with Alexius. He’s holed himself up in the throne room.”

Lavellan couldn’t suppress his shiver. He didn't want to face a Corypheus who had been successful. Somewhat. It seemed he still had no way into the Fade. He had assassinated Celene and retrieved his demon army, and Alexius’ time travel was still a viable option so he never went for the Temple of Mythal. But if the Breach was the thing making the time travel possible, then Lavellan was back to square one with his situation. Or perhaps whatever magic Alexius used was inferior.

“Then we have to move fast,” said Leliana.

They pushed through. Dorian asked Leliana questions but she brushed him off. It reminded him of Divine Victoria during her darker days and he resisted the urge to hug himself. This wasn’t Leliana. Warden-Commander Tabris had brought up her concerns too when they met, feared she was losing Leliana. Lavellan knew she didn’t say it, but he couldn’t help but feel as if Tabris blamed him.

What had happened to Tabris in this dark future? He missed her. She was so gentle and kind, and feral the next when she fought to protect. No wonder Leliana was smitten.

Lavellan’s mark flared when they neared the door. He couldn’t rely on the Veil to tell him anymore if rifts were nearby.

They readied themselves as Lavellan kicked open the door.

Demons everywhere. There was a Venatori mage in the room too. Lavellan snuck up behind him and slashed the back of his knees.

“The Elder One will come for you!” he cried before Lavellan silenced him.

Something red fell out of his satchel as he toppled forward. Lavellan picked it up. Red lyrium? He pocketed it for later and took care of the demons and rifts. Once they finished, Lavellan took out the shard and handed it to Dorian.

“Found this on the Venatori. Thoughts?”

Dorian turned it over in his hand before he looked at the large door at the end of the large hall. They approached it.

Lavellan studied the elaborate and convoluted swirling designs chiselled onto its surface, a pattern which made perfect sense to him but he knew it hurt non-elven eyes to look at. He ran his hands over the stone door.

“This is elven,” he murmured.

“Yes,” said Solas.

“How did he even get this here?” Dorian mumbled and noticed five spaces arrayed on the door. He placed the lyrium shard in one. It fit. “Ah! An elaborate lock with keys scattered about. Shall we go hunting?”

“No choice. We have to hurry.”

They investigated the wings. It was a slog and a half, and the Venatori they encountered were persistent. Once they had the rest of the shards, they returned to the door. Dorian fiddled with it, occasionally grumbled at by Bull, while Leliana and Solas hung back. Since Leliana didn’t seem in the mood for conversation, Lavellan joined Solas.

They stood in awkward tension, unsure of their dynamic now.

“I came here hoping to understand what forces led to me being sent back in time,” said Lavellan. A futile effort to dispel the tension perhaps. “But it answers nothing. Alexius’ time magic is only possible due to the Breach.”

“Alexius comprehends time as the corporeal would. Remember, this world is unchanging. Time is not limited to the physical world, nor is it truly quantifiable. Something of your situation’s magnitude, I suspect, is tied to the Fade and not a passage to it.”

“Everything comes back to the Fade. Perhaps a result of your actions.” Lavellan peered at Solas. “You aren’t from the future too, are you?”

Solas shook his head. “No.” Relief flooded him. Solas’ expression darkened. “The wolf puns,” he said. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Yes. Did you enjoy them?”

“No.”

“Good.” Lavellan grinned. “Hey, what was up with the Fen’Harel questions after?”

“You started it.”

“Yes, but you were the one who began asking about what I would do with Fen’Harel’s favour. _Your_ favour.”

Solas looked away, cleared his throat. “I wanted to get to know you.”

“You could have asked directly.”

“Yet your answer provided me with more insight into your person than any direct questions. And quite the intriguing answers you gave. I…” He paused, turned sombre. “I enjoyed speaking with you that night. I would have liked to engage you in more conversations of such a nature and instead…” He closed his eyes. And instead, it looked as if Lavellan had died.

Lavellan toyed with the stone, miraculously still in his pocket. “I enjoyed it too. I’d like to have more of them with you when I return.”

Solas’ fond smile squeezed Lavellan’s chest. “I would like that too.”

Dorian cursed Bull out at front and Leliana glowered at them for the racket.

“Will you tell me when you return?” Solas asked, voice soft.

Lavellan sat and leaned against the wall. “No.”

“Yet you won’t kill me.”

“No.”

Solas sat too and a stiff silence stretched between them. His next question tore Lavellan’s lungs out.

“How did it end?” he asked.

Lavellan focused on a tattered banner on the opposite wall. “I drove a blade into your heart. You did the same.”

“How disgustingly poetic.”

He laughed, the sound mild. It sounded poetic, perhaps tragically romantic, but it was neither of those. It was simply a waste.

“I drank from the Well of Sorrows,” Lavellan admitted.

Solas’ head whipped towards him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I drank from the Well of Sorrows,” he said again. “We backed Corypheus into a corner, and so he sought it. We beat him to it.”

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” he hissed.

“Word for word,” he muttered. “Yes. Mythal. I met her, you know. Infuriatingly cryptic. With your orb broken, you sought her out and absorbed her essence. So I _was_ under the control of an Elvhen god.” He stared at Solas, chest constricting. “You.”

He recoiled as if Lavellan struck him. Solas detested the notion of taking away someone’s free will and their thoughts, and yet.

Lavellan hurt. Lavellan ached. So he wrenched the metaphorical knife deeper. “You made me kill Cassandra.”

Another uneasy silence before a soft, broken noise left Solas and he buried his face in his hands. Lavellan hadn’t realised there were tears falling over his own cheeks and he wiped them away, stared at the drops on his fingertips with faint amusement.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Solas.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know.”

Lavellan’s next breaths shook as an ugly sob tried to claw its way out his throat. He laughed but it caught on his breaths.

“I want to hate you,” Lavellan said.

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

The glow of the door caught his attention and Lavellan got up, hurriedly wiping the tears. Solas got up too. If red lyrium hadn’t worn him down already, then Lavellan’s revelations certainly did. There was no satisfaction though. It was hollow.

“Done,” said Dorian. “Is everyone ready?”

Lavellan shattered his pain into fragments and reassembled his armour with them, piece by piece. Sharpened his daggers and strung his arrows with them.

“Let’s greet Alexius hello,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I oop- There goes Lavellan running his mouth. Apparently physically stabbing Solas wasn't enough.
> 
> On another note: For those unable to donate to Black Lives Matter organisations or can't attend protests and would like to help the movement and support the black community financially, there are YouTube videos which will give 100% of their ad revenues to BLM organisations. Keep them streaming in the background and don't skip any ads. Check the comments on how to stream them properly so your views count. Even the smallest things help. Here are two examples.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NokTSpMH44A  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM
> 
> Stay safe and informed, practice empathy, never be afraid to change your views in light of new information.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Fen'Harel ghilana em:** I've been deceived (lit. Fen'Harel guides me)[⇧]


	14. Melody of the damaged

_laments of the savage―_

* * *

No Venatori guards greeted them. No demons, no Fade rifts. Only a cold, large, and empty throne room absent of the actual throne. Alexius stood solitary, watching the flames in the large fireplace.

No, he wasn’t quite solitary.

Felix sat crouched beside him.

Even as they approached, Alexius made no move to stop or face them, just remained unmoving and Lavellan would have thought him dead if not for the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. He glanced at Felix.

Felix was blank. Didn’t acknowledge them, nothing. Stared straight ahead, glassy-eyed.

“It’s over, Alexius,” said Lavellan. They were all tired.

“So it is,” murmured Alexius. “I knew it was temporary. I knew you would be back but I never knew when.” He bowed his head. “My final mistake.”

“Was it worth it?” asked Dorian. “All of this? For what?”

“It doesn’t matter now. All we can do is wait for the end. The Elder One comes for me for my failure. For you for your meddling. He will come for us all.”

Lavellan gritted his teeth. “He is a false god, a pathetic embodiment of hubris, and you are a fool.”

Alexius laughed bitterly. “Is this where you start singing praises of the Maker?”

“No. I’m not interested in the next world; I’m interested in this one. The one you allowed to be razed.”

Leliana grabbed Felix and held him hostage, her knife over his throat. Alexius tensed, coiled tight in desperation as he reached for him, deterred when Leliana pressed the knife deeper. Felix didn’t react. No better than a corpse.

“Felix,” he breathed.

“That’s Felix?” asked Dorian. “Maker, what have you done?”

“He was going to die, Dorian,” Alexius said and his voice cracked. Feeble. Tired. Alexius was a walking corpse too.

Dorian stared at Felix, face falling. “He’s already dead,” he whispered.

“Please,” begged Alexius. “Let him go. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Leliana,” said Lavellan, voice terse. “Let Felix go. He’s innocent.”

And Leliana pinned him with the coldest stare of someone who was already a ghost. His stomach sank. It had been like this too, at the Valence cloister where he had bid her to let the Sister go. And she didn’t listen.

This time was no different.

“No one is innocent.”

She slit Felix’s throat.

Alexius’ anguished cry and magic rent the air and blew them back.

A barrier coated Lavellan, familiar, yet off. Solas. He was right when he said that the red lyrium had bled into his magic.

Alexius lashed out at Leliana with a barrage of electricity and she deftly avoided them, arrows ready. Bull was their only close-combat fighter apart from Lavellan, but it was hard to pin Alexius down due to his Fade steps. Lavellan checked his arrows. Eight left.

Though they had the numbers, Alexius could hole himself up in an impenetrable barrier while he opened rifts and unleashed demons upon them. And attacked them with spells. It was chaos and Lavellan couldn’t see in front of him without running into a demon or being hit by fire and ice. Amidst the melee, he found himself back to back with Solas.

“How’s your strength?” Lavellan asked, slashed at a shade, daggers slicked with black.

“Not ideal.” He bashed a demon with his staff.

It wasn’t going to work like this. They were getting overrun.

“Do you have a spell to drag enemies into a cluster and keep them there?” he asked. He wasn’t sure how far along Solas was with regaining his strength, but if he could just manage this―

A stream of fire headed for them. Solas grabbed the back of Lavellan’s coat and yanked him away. The fire caught on Solas’ sleeves and he extinguished them with a hiss.

“I believe so,” said Solas. “You have a plan?”

Lavellan nodded and pointed to a mob of demons overwhelming Bull and Leliana. “There. Can you exclude Bull and Leliana?”

“No time for doubting.” Solas held his hand out and pulled back as if tugging on something.

A green cloud materialised overhead the mob and dragged them to it.

“Bull, Leliana, get away from there!” Lavellan ordered. They followed and Lavellan sundered the Veil. It devastated the cluster but it also sent a furious flurry of pain through his arm. He grimaced.

The demons perished from its force. He closed the sunder and weathered through the discomfort.

Behind them, Alexius’ barrier flickered and dropped and Leliana was there, loosing a focused shot. Blocked by a wall of ice. A red magic circle flashed beneath Lavellan and the sudden heat was his only warning before the flames roared. Would have incinerated him had it not been for Solas’ hasty barrier.

“I will deliver your hand to the Elder One!” hissed Alexius from wherever he hid himself. “And I will throw your head at his feet.”

The fire wouldn’t dwindle. Solas’ barrier was brittle, spurred on last minute, and it wouldn’t hold for long. Damn it, damn it! There were five of them and one of Alexius! Why was it so hard to keep him in one place?

Either way, he couldn’t stay here and wait for the barrier to fall. Lavellan took a breath. Leapt through the flames with his arms shielding his face. The heat seared and licked along his cheeks and his arms for a fraction of a second before he was out and rolling, extinguishing any patches of fire on his clothes. His arrows scattered all over the ground and he cursed, coat steaming. His arms took the brunt of the flames but the coat provided some protection. Still, they felt raw.

Alexius reappeared at the front of the throne room, ready to erect another barrier.

Leliana shot into his shoulder. Alexius staggered, but the loathing and despair raged in his eyes. He Fade-stepped.

Oh for fu― How?

Behind Lavellan.

Lavellan was too slow to move and something hit the back of his head and his vision stuttered, accompanied by the flaring spread of dull yet sharp pain. He fell, his arrow shafts digging into his already raw arms.

“―hanon!”

Alexius dragged him up and rested his staff's blade on Lavellan’s neck. 

His companions stopped.

His vision still swam and black spots danced over it. Dagger― Where were his daggers? Alexius pressed the blade deeper when Lavellan moved.

“No one is innocent, you said?” Alexius rasped at Leliana.

She drew her bow, aim steady.

“No!” cried Dorian. “What are you doing? You’ll hit him too!”

“Are you doubting my aim?”

“I’m doubting Alexius will keep him there when you shoot!”

“You’ve taken everything,” said Alexius. “There is nothing for me, so I will leave you with nothing. He is your hope and I will take it away.”

Lavellan did _not_ come this far just to have his throat slit by a Tevinter Magister.

He cursed at Alexius and flexed his left hand.

A sunder opened over them.

Bull and Solas tried to run towards him but he cried out, “No! You’ll get caught in it!”

He grabbed Alexius’ wrist, the one holding the staff, and tried to wrench it away. Alexius struggled against him and the pull of the sunder. Lavellan could feel it too. Fighting against the force of it was easier for him likely because of the Anchor.

Alexius’ movements may have been limited but that didn’t stop him from wrestling the staff away from Lavellan.

The pain in his left hand scraped his bones with a barbed arrow, coupling with the damaged skin rubbing against the material of his sleeves. He gritted his teeth so hard that he feared his jaw would crack. His eyes fell on the arrow still in Alexius’ shoulder. It didn’t go through all the way because of the chain mail, but it had still entered flesh.

Lavellan reached, twisted, yanked it out.

Alexius screamed.

He wrenched the staff away from Alexius’ hand. The mark was molten heat within his veins. He couldn’t hold the sunder open for any longer.

Lavellan stabbed him in the throat.

Alexius choked over a silent cry.

Lavellan stepped back and let the sunder close, panting. Stillness descended and Alexius crumpled on the floor, clutching at his throat, but he was losing blood quick.

If he wouldn't die of blood loss, then lack of air.

They were silent as Alexius uttered his final gurgles. He stopped struggling after the first few frantic seconds and collapsed on the floor. Closed his eyes.

His breaths stopped after a while.

Dorian was the first to approach, tentative, as if Alexius could rise. But no. He would not, even if he could. There was a faint smile on Alexius’ lips. Dorian knelt beside him and sighed.

“He wanted to die,” he murmured, and whispered words under his breath. Perhaps rites. Lavellan looked upon Alexius and his shoulders slumped.

He was never doing this for the Elder One or the return of old Tevinter.

It was all for Felix.

He bowed his head and murmured his own rites. That much, he could give him.

His left hand pulsed with warm hurt. He glanced down at it and winced. Green had overtaken his veins, made them glow stark against his skin, angry and pulsing. It would be best if he didn’t use it for a while.

Dorian took Alexius’ amulet.

“Here it is,” he said, usual exuberance gone. “Give me an hour and I’m sure I can come up with something.”

“An hour?” Leliana said and shook her head vehemently. “ _No_. You don’t have that kind of time. You must go now!”

Lavellan cradled his hand to his chest. “Already?”

His answer came in the form of an earthquake and the unholy screech of Corypheus’ dragon. Dust from the ceiling rained on them and stone fell from the weakened columns. They stared around them in apprehension.

“Yes, already,” Leliana said. Had Lavellan blinked, he would have missed the hint of fear in her tone. “The Elder One is coming.”

“You cannot stay here,” said Solas from behind him.

“No,” agreed Bull. They put a hand on Lavellan’s shoulders and Solas and Bull shared a look. Lavellan’s stomach sank. Already knew what went through their head.

“We’ll guard the door, deter them from reaching you,” said Solas. “We will buy you time.”

A panicked choke lurched up Lavellan’s throat. “No― I’m not letting you die!”

“Mercy,” Bull murmured, “we’re already dead.” He clapped Lavellan on the back. “For what it’s worth, it was nice fighting next to you. Have a few drinks with past me, yeah? Tell him it’s his shout.”

He marched towards the door, unerring, fearless. No wonder Krem and the Chargers cherished him. He had a dependable back.

Dorian immediately set to work, muttering an impressive stream of curses over the amulet.

Solas curled his hand around Lavellan’s nape and leaned their foreheads together.

“Solas, you idiot,” he hissed but it was too full of hurt, too full of desperation, to be venomous enough. “Only I’m allowed to kill you.”

He smiled. “Then return to the past and do not let this Elder One do it for you.” He grabbed Lavellan’s arms and eased the mild burns. “Upon your return, relay a message to myself. Tell him red lyrium is not a viable path.”

Lavellan’s confusion battled with his desperation and sorrow. “What?”

“I am sorry for all the pain I have caused, and all the pain I will cause.” Solas moved away and Lavellan wanted to kiss him, as if that would make him stay.

Not that it ever did.

“I won’t let you,” Lavellan declared. “In the future, I won’t let you. I’ll stop you.”

Solas’ smile was sad yet resolute.

“Good.”

He and the Iron Bull walked out the doors, and once it shut, the heaviness crushed his ribs. Leliana gathered the arrows Lavellan had dropped earlier and calmly returned them to him. She met his gaze and nodded.

“Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.”

“Well in that case―” He gave her the arrows she returned and for a brief second, a glimmer of a smile pulled at her cracked lips. She took them and stood in front of the door.

Lavellan retreated and stayed close to Dorian, eyes on the door. A thousand scenarios ran through his head. None of them good. His stomach churned, his hand hurt, and there was nothing but wretchedness filling his throat. The amulet hovered and green energy flickered around it.

For a dreadful moment, it was silent.

Then fighting.

Then a pounding at the door. More dust rained.

Leliana fetched an arrow, nocked it, movements relaxed.

“Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame,” she began and drew.

The door flung open and Lavellan paled at the stream of demons and Venatori. A large Terror dragged Iron Bull’s corpse as if he weighed like air and threw him into the room carelessly. Lavellan’s breath stuttered. He searched for Solas but the mob was too thick.

Leliana fired her arrows, picking at the front lines and felling them, calm as she murmured her Chants. Ran out of arrows. An arrow buried into her shoulder and she staggered back, cried out, but she pushed through. Rammed her bow into her enemies instead.

She wasn’t going to make it.

Lavellan moved.

“Don’t!” cried Dorian. “Move and we all die!” The green energy around the amulet strengthened.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and any sound he could have made died in his throat. One of the Venatori grabbed Leliana and their gazes met across the room.

They slit her throat and she fell.

A rift opened and Lavellan jerked his head away, sprinted into it, eyes and heart and hand burning. It prickled as they passed. Pulled and pushed him all at once, before it dissipated in a blink and he found himself back in the throne room absent of the demon mob and the corpses of his friends. They met Alexius’ startled expression.

Lavellan called on his fury, his rage, but he had nothing left to give.

“Alexius, enough,” he murmured. “I tire of this. Don’t you?”

Alexius looked down with a defeated twist in his expression, fell to his knees.

Lavellan turned, made sure it was right, that it was alright, and there stood Solas and Bull. Confused, but alive. Uncorrupted by red lyrium. Whole and _alive_ and Lavellan wanted to vomit all over again once he met their gazes.

He turned back to Alexius because it was the only way he could flee. “Surrender. For Felix’s sake if not your own. You don’t have to keep doing this.”

Alexius turned to Felix, beaten, as exhausted as Lavellan. “But he’ll die.”

Felix’s expression softened and he knelt in front of his father, took his hand. “We all die. It’s going to be alright, father.”

They shared a moment and Lavellan let them. Dorian watched them, though he was still pale and clearly shaken from the future they saw. Lavellan doubted he looked any better. Alexius soon rose and let the Inquisition soldiers take him away. Lavellan breathed easier.

“Well, thank goodness that’s over,” muttered Dorian. “I was afraid he would refuse.”

“I’d have knocked him out myself if he did.”

“You wouldn’t kill him?”

Lavellan needed Alexius alive. He was the only one he knew who understood time magic the most.

“No.” Now came what they were here for. He turned to Grand Enchanter Fiona and was about to speak when soldiers marched into the room. He scrutinised their armour. Fereldan.

King Alistair Theirin strode inside, disgruntled, and Fiona sucked in a breath when she saw him.

“Grand Enchanter,” greeted Alistair, “imagine my surprise when I hear you’ve given Redcliffe castle over to a Tevinter Magister!” He noticed Lavellan and frowned.

Alistair and he had gotten along like a house on fire when they finally met, but he doubted it would be the same for now, given the strange circumstances. Morrigan had absolutely detested them when they were together.

It was a little difficult staring at someone you’ve become friends with only for them to look at you with wariness.

Lavellan bowed instead. “Your Majesty,” he greeted.

“I’m guessing you’re the Herald of Andraste everyone’s been talking about,” he said.

“Let me guess,” said Lavellan dryly. “Tall elf?”

“Your, uh, hand’s glowing. Does it always do that?”

Lavellan looked down at it, blinked at the green of his veins and said, “Oh. Uh, no. It doesn’t.”

“Huh,” he said, but shook his head and returned his attention to Fiona with a sigh. “Look, I’ve tried my best to help you, really. But this?” His expression hardened. “You and your followers can no longer be welcome in Ferelden.”

Fiona’s face turned ashen. “Exile?” she asked. “But we have hundreds in need of protection. Some of them are still children. We have nowhere to go.”

“There is one place,” said Lavellan. He compartmentalised the shock from his future travel because there was another more urgent matter. Time was ticking. “Join the Inquisition.”

She frowned. “I see. And what are the terms of this arrangement?”

“A hell of a lot better than being indentured to Tevinter,” he said and sent a silent but not entirely apologetic apology to Vivienne for his next words. “The mages will fight as allies of the Inquisition. You will have protection, shelter, and since we have no affiliations with Ferelden, there will be no conflict regarding hospitality. Redcliffe castle returns to its rightful owner. Is that amenable to both of you?”

He caught Solas’ look across the room and wasn’t sure what to make of it.

_Red lyrium is not a viable path._

What had Solas meant? It was a fair enough statement, but why that specifically? Path for what? Was he talking about his eventual pursuit of the lyrium idol?

“That’s a generous offer,” said Fiona, “but will the rest of the Inquisition honour it?”

“We cannot afford division. Not at a time like this. Be courteous, and I will ensure you are treated the same in return.”

Alistair crossed his arms. “Whether you accept the offer or not, remember you still have to leave my kingdom.”

Fiona sighed in defeat. “Then we accept. I promise, you will not regret the chance you’ve given us.”

“Glad to hear it. Make whatever preparations you need and we’ll meet again at Haven.” He hesitated, then said, “After this, we’re riding out to Therinfal. We may come back with some of the Templars.”

Her eyes widened.

“We’re _what_?” Solas blurted out.

Lavellan ignored him. “I promise I know what I’m doing, and I want to be forthcoming. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t really a choice for you at this point, but I promise the Templars won’t touch you. So long as it goes both ways. Haven is a place of neutrality.”

“It is as you say,” she sighed. “It’s not much of a choice for us, but we will endure. We have gone through much, and lost many, so we are thankful that this is not another conscription disguised as a favour. We will do what we can, so long as we are in no imminent danger.”

“Only the hole in the sky,” he said, tried for levity.

Fiona smiled. “Then it's a good thing we’re helping you with it.”

He much preferred this alive Fiona. He preferred an alive anyone, barring Corypheus and his overzealous lackeys. Dead false archdemons were also nice.

“Thank you, Fiona.” He turned to Alistair and bowed again. “Sorry to cut this short, but we have somewhere to be.”

“Hang on,” said Bull. “What?”

Lavellan flew down the steps, nerves still fried yet overloaded, and he rode the momentum of his adrenaline before he could crash. “We’re meeting up with the others. We have to move quick.” He paused and looked back at Dorian who seemed lost at the sudden turn of events.

“Hey,” he called, “want to come with us or will you depart with the mages?”

Dorian raised his brows. “Both of those options imply I’m remaining with the Inquisition.”

“If you want to return to Tevinter, we can arrange―”

“And miss out on the rustic charm of the South?” He waved a hand. “How dreadful. We can’t have that.” He descended the steps and smiled at him. “Where to?”

“Templars. More fighting.”

“Yes, I suspected as much."

They sped to the stables where four horses waited along with an Inquisition scout. She saluted upon their arrival.

“Your Worship!” she said. “Here are the horses you requested,”

“Any developments?” he asked.

“The ten Houses are arrayed outside. The Lord Seeker is asking for you and refuses to open the gates for anybody else. Not even Seeker Pentaghast.”

Spectacular. “No news of pulling back?”

“None that I know of.”

Perfect. “Alright, everyone on. We’re riding like the bloody wind. I’m expected.” The news from Redcliffe won’t travel too fast, hopefully. The Inquisition had neutralised any Venatori influence, and even if a message were sent to Therinfal, it would be too late.

As Bull and Dorian swung onto their saddles, Solas pulled him back momentarily.

“One moment,” he said and examined Lavellan’s hand, rubbing it soothingly. The pain eased, the angry green glow of his veins abating. Lavellan couldn’t breathe. The secrets and the lies returned and he had forgotten the burden of their weight, momentarily liberated by the admission of truth in the future where nothing and yet everything was at stake.

Lavellan focused on his breathing.

“What happened? You look…” His gaze raked over Lavellan. Oh, Creators. He must look like a wreck.

“Long story,” he said, attempted a semblance of normalcy. “The rift took us a year into the future.”

That stopped Solas.

“Future you told me to relay a message.” Lavellan extricated himself from Solas’ gentle grasp because it hurt far more than the mark ever could. “He said: red lyrium is not a viable path.”

Solas looked at him, tense. “I see,” he said. “Has he said anything else?”

He knew Solas was looking for evidence that his true identity may have slipped. Lavellan shook his head and _oh gods I can’t do this, I can’t do this, not again._ The secrets, the lies which slipped far too readily and easily _―_

“You sacrificed yourself,” he whispered because it was easier to pin his panic on that. “To buy us more time. I―” He gripped Solas’ shoulders. Solas was kind enough not to mention how Lavellan’s hands trembled. “No more heroics. I can’t take it.”

“Have you perhaps tried taking your own advice?”

Lavellan cracked a shaky grin. “Me? Heroics? Don’t be preposterous!”

“Later, you have to elaborate on this future.”

“Later,” he lied. What was another lie on top of his other ones?

Who was the worse liar? The one who lied outright or the one who lied through omission?

Fuck, they were both terrible people.

They rode out of Redcliffe and Lavellan pretended that his shaking was from the impact of his horse’s legs hitting the ground. He patted the horse’s neck in apology as he urged it faster. They stopped halfway through to let the horses rest and regain strength, but Lavellan slipped away from the group and sought out a stream burbling nearby.

He stared at his reflection in the water and laughed brokenly at his appearance. Dust coated his hair and face and there was a thin line of crusted blood on his neck where Alexius’ blade had rested.

Lavellan splashed his face and washed the dust from his hair. His hands still shook. The Anchor was behaving now and his veins were no longer aflame with green. His wet hair fell over his eyes and he slicked it back. Should he cut it?

He almost laughed. He returned from the future _twice_ , was about to confront a demon that would invade his mind and probe into the deepest recesses of it and no doubt come up with something dreadful, and all he could think about was the length of his hair? That had to be another level of vanity.

Everything was too fast.

Good. It had to be fast, otherwise he would have another breakdown. No time for those.

Still, he had to wonder. How did time magic work? That dark future they saw, the future of Corypheus’ victory, did all of that return to where they were now? Or did he essentially throw an entire reality away to return it to its rightful state? Rightful. Lavellan looked down at his hands. Rightful state? The ‘good’ state? The ‘best’ state of reality?

“This isn’t real to you,” Leliana had said.

It was _their_ present, and Lavellan just rushed in trying to wave it all away and gods he felt sick. His hands trembled anew.

There could have been other people who had made a life, somehow, in that horrid world. People who had found others and found solace with them, forged new connections, and maybe children had been born and Lavellan just… took it all away. Who was he to decide that that future was wrong?

Fuck. He splashed more water onto his face stared at his fragmented reflection the water, wavering from the ripples he created.

All the justifications he told himself, didn’t they all sound exactly like Solas?

The bushes rustled behind him. He assumed from the lighter steps it was Solas. It was always Solas when he was alone and conflicted like this because the universe despised Lavellan.

Where was the sound of wooden blocks?

Not Solas. He reached for his dagger and whirled.

“Vishante kaffas!”

Lavellan froze, blinked at Dorian who had his arms raised in front of him. Either in a placating manner or one of surrender.

“Oh. Hello.”

“ _Hello_? You almost impaled me! Not in a good way, mind you.”

Lavellan sheathed his dagger. “Sorry. I was deep in thought and I’m… jumpy.”

“Really? No, I thought you quite a docile creature!” Dorian’s fake cheer was quick to dissolve. He sighed. “Oh, that’s exhausting.”

“Tell me about it.” Lavellan mussed his hair and shook out the water droplets, tried to maintain a casual façade. “Was there something you needed?”

Dorian stared out into the distance in silence for a while. Lavellan waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“It’s just― I told your companions what happened. The annoying oaf, Iron Bull? He called me a liar. Solas believed me, at least, but I suspect only because you’ve told him already. Some kernel of it. I just needed some fresh air, I suppose. Seek out the only other one who saw it.”

Lavellan nodded. “No, I know what you mean.” He dipped his arms in the water and let it cool his skin. No burns. Something of that magnitude must have been taxing, especially for Solas’ state. He must have thrown his all into it, already expecting to die. Stupid wolf. “I’m going to try and get the Templars next. I’m a little worried about the reception. My other companions waiting for us don’t know what happened so I guess they’ll be in for a bit of surprise.” Keep talking, keep talking, push the unpleasantness away. No time. Simply no time.

“Considering you’re returning with an extra mage.”

“Madame Vivienne is going to adore you,” he muttered.

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with her.”

“You’ll know her when you meet her.”

Dorian joined him by the banks and washed his face and hair as well.

It was nice, for a while. Lavellan calmed somewhat. Dorian’s presence had always pulled him away from whatever was grieving him for that week. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was just like old times when he and Dorian would spend time in the quiet with complete understanding, maybe sharing a drink or watching his servants (paid servants, not slaves) scurrying about the manor.

_“It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?” asked Dorian, eyes distant yet alert._

_“What would?”_

_“If we had fallen in love with each other instead. Less drama. Not completely absent because I refuse to be devoid of entertainment even at my own expense.”_

_Lavellan laughed faintly. “You’re right. It would be easier.” He propped his chin on his hand and his smile faded. “But we never take the easy road.”_

_Dorian raised his glass and Lavellan clinked it with his. “To suffering on the difficult path.”_

_“Cheers.”_

Dorian cleared his throat which brought Lavellan back into the present.

“I was wondering… You and Solas. Are you two…?” He gestured.

Lavellan watched the water lap over his wrists. Still felt the nausea from realising that he essentially did what Solas tried to do. And out of the two of them, Lavellan was the one who had succeeded.

“What makes you say that?”

“Watching your interactions.”

“We’re not together, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Very close friendship then?”

Lavellan did bark out a laugh then, a tad hysteric, and shook his head.

“Let’s just say: he is a terrible idea,” said Lavellan.

Dorian sighed. “They always are.”

A thousand pasts and a thousand futures arrayed in his mind, fractals of a shattered mirror, all of them happy; tainted with melancholy. When he thought: _Solas_ , it was sunlight and eclipses and hurt. And hope.

_Ar lath._

_Solas_ and _Fen’Harel_ were a cluster of tangles wrapped so tight around Lavellan that they may as well be a part of him. Love, to him, to them both, was not what they wanted it to be.

It was a festering sickness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hohoholy shit, that happened. Congrats Lavellan, you've successfully time travelled TWICE. Now it's off to the Templars and is this boy ever catching a break? (I don't know how to write action scenes but let's pretend I do).
> 
> In any case, I've written almost 200k words for this so when I say you'll want for nothing for a while, I mean it. Update schedule so far is twice a week on Mondays and Thursdays. Things to look forward to in future chapters: more dream sequences with the stupid wolf, soft Solavellan interactions, feral Solavellan interactions, and ominous elven mysteries afoot. Anyways, I'm excited.
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful comments. My mental health has taken a swan dive during these past few months so writing this and reading your comments truly bring a little light into my life.
> 
> Once again, another note: for this fic, I'll be exploring and writing about the racial oppression and inequality experienced by the elves in the DA universe and it would be wrong of me to do so without acknowledging and addressing the same and very real issue happening right now with the BLM movement. So, here's a link that lists some petitions you can sign for free:
> 
> <https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#petitions>
> 
> That site also has tons of resources if you would like to explore other ways to help the BLM movement further.


	15. Away with the abscess

_the poison of excess―_

* * *

There was a large commotion outside Therinfal Redoubt. All the Orlesian nobles in their extravagant dresses and their trademark masks had arrayed on the path to the Redoubt and they gasped as Lavellan and his group’s horses thundered past.

He all but jumped off his horse in his haste and rushed up to where Varric, Sera, and Blackwall were, Solas, Bull and Dorian following close behind.

“Hey chosen one,” Sera greeted. “You look pissed. The mages give you a hard time?”

“Something like that,” he huffed. “What’s happened?”

“Apparently a gaggle of nobles, an angry Seeker, and a vicious Senior Enchanter wasn’t going to sway the Lord Seeker,” said Varric. “When we mentioned you were coming… Well, let’s just say there was a _massive_ change of heart. But only if you were here. Hey, you alright?”

“Absolutely not,” he said and pushed forward before Varric could ask. No time for explanations. “Come on.”

“We’re coming?” asked Blackwall.

“I have a feeling I’ll need you all there.”

Therinfal loomed above them, the Templar banner swaying with the wind. He’d faced Envy before, knew what was going to happen soon, but there were newer things to prod in his head. Newer hurts, newer pain. What would Envy do with them? Would it take them to Corypheus and show Lavellan’s memories of the future so that Corypheus could work around it?

He shivered at the thought.

Cassandra and Vivienne were at the front, hassling a singled-out Templar. Meanwhile, other groups of nobles were pressuring the other Templars guarding outside the portcullis.

“Darling,” greeted Vivienne. “It’s a pleasure to meet you once more. I’m afraid we’ve both been too preoccupied to speak again after our initial meeting.”

“I’m glad to see you were able to make it to Haven alright. And thank you for the connections you’ve shared with us. Greatly appreciated.”

“Of course.” She flicked her gaze over to Dorian and narrowed her eyes.

“What’s the situation?” he asked to veer their attentions away. Dorian just got back from a future where they killed his mentor and his friend died and everything went to crap. He was about to be thrown into another ass-load of demons. The guy needed a break.

It was Cassandra who answered. “Now that you are here, they will finally open the gates.”

“Good. Am I late?”

“We told them you were on your way an hour or two ago.”

He cursed in his head. He couldn’t allow the Lord Seeker to make his preparations. And Lavellan had been away for almost _two_ hours?

“Open the gates!” he announced.

“Is he alright?” Blackwall asked behind him though he suspected Blackwall was trying to be subtle.

“Long story,” said Dorian.

“And who’re you?”

“That’s a long story too.”

The gates opened and Ser Barris greeted them. Lavellan rushed past the conversation and skipped the entire flag ordeal. Last time, he had raised the People’s flag high. If he tried to do them now, he feared he’d set fire to all of them just to prove a point that he thought this entire ceremony was something that the Envy demon had turned into a pile of shit.

It went like last time, but Knight Captain Denam seemed more hassled.

“Herald of Andraste,” he sneered, sickly behind his visor. Red Templars filed in behind them. “We had to move everything forward because of you.”

“I gave you almost two bloody hours,” he couldn’t help but snark. “Are you that inefficient?”

Denam snarled. Ser Barris’ asked questions, searched for answers, but Denam was too far gone. It didn’t matter. Lavellan studied Ser Barris. He had died defending the hall last time. This time, Lavellan would strive to save more people, including Ser Barris.

They fought Denam, detained him, and pushed through Therinfal, battling Red Templars left and right.

Bringing all his companions was the best idea he had ever conceived.

“Red lyrium! Wonderful!” said Dorian as he shoved the end of his staff into a Templar’s eyes.

“They’re monstrous!” cried Cassandra.

“Yes dear, we _noticed_ ,” snapped Vivienne.

A familiar hat occasionally flashed in his periphery and Lavellan pressed his lips in apprehension. Cole. Would he know everything once they meet? Would he see how he had betrayed Lavellan for Solas?

They scaled Therinfal until he faltered at the steps where the Lord Seeker waited at the top.

“Lord Seeker!” cried Cassandra. “What is this madness? What have you done?”

“I have ushered in a new era!” he proclaimed. “Come, Herald of Andraste. Let me know you.”

Lavellan grinned. He was fatigued, covered in blood, and positively feral. Unfortunately, that was when he was at his best.

“Come get me.”

He sprinted up the steps, daggers ready, ignored Cassandra’s cries for him to wait. Envy held his hands out and wrapped them around Lavellan’s head, slithering coldness clamping.

And his eyes opened to a world of twisted, swirling green. A parody of the waking world, fragments of it smashed into a distorted assemblage.

“Daring,” purred the Envy demon’s voice. “Very interesting.”

Lavellan pushed through, ignored the burnt husk of the bodies which called back to the corpses at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“And steadfast.”

“Sick of you. How about that?”

“Mouthy,” it grumbled.

Who would it impersonate this time to get to him? Last time it had been his advisors. He had trusted them, trusted their advice and input, and they had been his anchors in a world that was changing so violently.

The columns and burnt bodies faded into a forest.

Oh?

He journeyed into it. The more it stretched, the more it strained the demon. He must continue.

“Curious,” noted Envy.

“Perhaps you’re not as great at studying people as you think,” he said.

“Incendiary.”

“Hardly.”

Was it wise to antagonise Envy this much?

A presence behind him. The forest floor crunched beneath their feet. Lavellan turned, expected Leliana, maybe Cullen or Josephine, maybe even Cassandra.

But he did not expect Solas.

Solas― No, _Envy_ smiled.

“Will this let me know you?” it asked, threading Solas’ voice with its own and Lavellan had had enough of demons and red lyrium distorting his voice.

“Come closer and we’ll find out.”

Envy tilted its head. It mimicked Lavellan’s voice then cackled, walked around him.

“Being you will be so much more interesting than the Lord Seeker.”

When it reappeared in his view, it had taken on Ellana’s form. Lavellan glowered. She― No, _it_ approached and gave him a perfect replica of Ellana pouting.

“You can tell me anything, you know that right?” it asked, voice a perfect mimicry. Lavellan drew his dagger and stabbed her through the stomach.

She gasped and lurched, tears springing to her eyes. “Why?” she wheezed and his heart wrenched but no, this wasn’t Ellana. Ellana was safe on the other side of the Waking Sea with the clan, burying her head in books and learning from the Keeper and advancing her magic and hopefully staying away from demons while she dreamt. “Oh Hanon, what have I ever done to deserve this?”

He stared it down.

Tar leaked from her mouth and trickled in long, thick strands. She grinned, viscous fluid between her teeth.

“Cold,” it whispered. “Ruthless. Staring your poor sister down and killing her like this?”

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, a mockery of a tender embrace. Their voice hummed in his ear.

Lavellan tensed.

“How about this?”

That was Solas’ voice, he knew, but the frame behind him was broader, taller, and he spied long hair spilling, golden rings holding them in place. Lavellan couldn’t breathe.

“Ah,” it murmured. “You _fear_ him.”

 _Fen’Harel_. 

Ellana laid a gentle hand over his, the one with the dagger through her stomach.

“Does this hurt?” she asked. “Does it grip your heart so tight you cannot see?”

Ignore it, ignore _it_.

“Or perhaps,” joined another voice. Solas again, but in the form of the humble apostate. He approached Lavellan. Lavellan who was already trapped by the past, present, and future. “Perhaps it _burns_. Are you angry?”

“Get out,” he hissed. He tried to move, but Fen’Harel tightened his grip and Ellana took a step forward, let the blade sink deeper. Solas wrapped his hand around Lavellan’s throat.

Not good, not good―

“I can make it stop,” whispered Envy. “I can make the hurt stop. Let me be you, and I will remove it all.”

“Fuck. Off.”

They cackled, rang and echoed in his head. Solas tightened his grip. Lavellan pulled the dagger out of Ellana and stabbed into Solas’ wrist, tried to twist, but Solas wouldn’t move his hand. Fen’Harel dug his fingers into the sides of Lavellan’s ribs.

“There’s someone else here.”

Lavellan jerked his head at the sound of Cole’s voice.

Envy-Solas frantically looked around. “Who was that? Get out of here!”

“A marble dropped in an ocean, caught in the currents, wants the ocean to obey but it won’t happen. The ocean wants it gone. You’re not as strong as you think you are.”

“Get out, pest!”

Lavellan puzzled over the words. Ocean. There was someone else here? In his mind?

“The marble is crystal but everything breaks when the water presses. It’s calling. The waves roar, rush, rasping ancient knuckles and you made a mistake. You took the forms of their blood. It doesn’t like that you did. It thinks you’re too loud.”

He couldn’t find Cole. Where was he?

“ _Listen_ ,” Cole urged.

So Lavellan closed his eyes and took a breath.

Whispers. Misty hands pressed up against the glass, shrieking, angered at the intrusion of such a greedy guest. The Well of Sorrows raged.

A marble. The Envy demon’s world was a marble but there was ocean all around them.

Lavellan pressed his hands against the boundaries and strained for the whispers.

“They don’t like you here,” said Cole and the Envy demon shrieked, screeched, but Lavellan paid it no heed. He battered himself against the marble’s casing, screaming, kicking, cracking its surface. The Envy demon tightened its hold but the waters heard his struggles and they were coming, swelling, taking up every space in the corners of his mind.

 _“Ma halani [1],” _he called out for the Well.

 _Ar’an amahn [2]_.

The marble shattered.

Lavellan opened his eyes.

Envy had taken Lavellan’s form and he stared at this twisted double of himself while Fen’Harel, Solas, and Ellana turned on Envy, their eyes electric and blue. When they spoke, they spoke with the voices of the Ancients, his blood singing with their symphony.

Envy screeched. The world it built crumbled under the force of the waves.

“What is this?” it asked, desperate. “This is _my_ world! You can’t―”

_Vara! [3]_

Lavellan was free to move. He pulled his hand back, formed a fist.

“Hey Envy!”

Envy looked up.

Lavellan punched it.

His mind realigned with his body and he was back at Therinfal with the late afternoon sun blinding him, but there was no time for disorientation.

He slashed his daggers, the ones still in his hand, and wounded the Envy demon.

“Andraste’s tits!” swore Blackwall.

“Oh piss, piss, _piss_ what is _that_?” asked Sera.

Envy crashed into the doors of the Great Hall, a gangly mess of limbs and contorting spines and patchworked skin, bleeding black tar from where Lavellan had cut it. It scrambled back, shrieking at him.

“Stop gawking and help him!” That was Dorian. Good old Dorian.

Arrows and spells followed the demon as it retreated before it erected a barrier at the front of the hall and holed itself outside.

Lavellan clicked his tongue in annoyance. Ser Barris rushed in, stunned.

“The Lord Seeker―”

“No, Envy,” said Lavellan. “Gods, I’m sick of this,” he muttered.

“Envy?” exclaimed Cassandra. “Then the Lord Seeker?”

Holed up somewhere but he kept quiet. Ser Barris shook his head.

“Dead or caged…” His armour clanked as he paced. “Maker, I knew that red stuff was wretched.”

“You think?” asked Varric.

“The commanders took it first. To show they were harmless. The demon corrupted our order without our realising.”

Lavellan gripped Barris’ pauldron and forced him to look up. “Will you take responsibility for this?” he asked. Ser Barris stared, adrift and hopeless for a moment, before his eyes turned resolute and he nodded in grim determination. Lavellan nodded back. “Then help finish it.”

He straightened his back and addressed a Templar. “Templar! What is Envy?”

The Templar hissed, “A coward, brother!”

Ser Barris was quick to turn the despondency of his fellow Templars into fierce determination and fighting spirit. Lavellan gripped his daggers tight. He would not let Ser Barris die. He was one of the only good ones left, both in spirit and heart. He turned to Lavellan.

“We need our veterans. All our commanding officers have been turned but our lieutenants are likely still fighting. We’ll also need more lyrium to break through that barrier. We’ll hold the Hall. Please find the veterans and uncorrupted lyrium stores.” He gave them directions for the lyrium caches and likely areas where the lieutenants could be.

Lavellan turned to his companions, spying Cole in his periphery again.

Last time, it had all been a mad dash to help the veterans, defend the Hall, and find the lyrium. They had paid for it with death. He had tried to take it all on himself and look where that got him. He had to rely on others.

He counted them. Nine of them altogether. Ten counting Cole.

He ran through the combinations in his mind quickly.

Three for each duty. For the Hall… Those who can endure or control the state of the field.

“Cassandra, Varric, Solas,” he said. “Help Ser Barris hold down the Hall.” Cassandra could weather through the toughest of fights and she could set the lyrium in someone’s blood on fire, Varric had a strategic eye and could lay out traps and plan manoeuvres, Solas was just as strategic and his support would boost the hardiness of the team.

For the lieutenants, heavy hitters. Fast and strong.

“Bull, Vivienne, Sera,” he said. “Find the lieutenants. You are the fast and heavy hitters. They need to be here as soon as possible to help hold everything down. Once you’re done, stay and hold the Hall.”

All that was left was Blackwall and Dorian. He grinned at them. “You two are stuck with me looking for that lyrium cache.”

Blackwall chuckled. “Stop you from challenging more demons and going up in their face?”

“Very good,” he said.

“Wait,” said Solas. Lavellan turned and raised a brow, ignored how his stomach churned. Envy knew to use Solas. What did that say about Lavellan?

“Problem with the arrangements?” he asked.

Solas’ expression was tight and for a moment, Lavellan thought he really was about to argue.

But he shook his head. “No, never mind.”

With their duties in mind, they headed off. Solas threw him a lingering look and Lavellan had enough courage to return it, before Solas looked away and prepared. Lavellan frowned before his gaze finally locked onto Cole which meant he wanted Lavellan to see him.

Wanted Lavellan to let him know how to help.

He tipped his head towards the Hall and his companions. _Watch over them_ , he thought and exited in search of the lyrium caches.

The Red Templars were more enduring, stronger, faster, the perfect hivemind soldiers. Lavellan despised red lyrium.

The joke was on them. He had Blackwall. That man could outlast a dragon.

They discovered the plot to assassinate Empress Celene with Cole making a surprise appearance to elaborate. Afterwards, he canted his head at Lavellan.

“You see me,” he said.

“I do,” said Lavellan.

“Fascinating. What is he?” asked Dorian.

“Another helper.” Lavellan gave the blood-drawn eyes on the wall an unimpressed grimace. “I asked you to watch over my friends in the Hall.”

“They didn’t need me there,” he said. “So I went where I was. I know where they are. They sing, crystals from when the land breathed, veins and the colossus. There,” he said and pointed east, but his eyes kept staring at Lavellan, peering into the inner workings of his being. “You’re fractured, light slipping through cracks, keeping you together. But… the light’s not yours.” Was he talking about the Anchor? His eyes widened. “No. You walk the shadows. You’re from before and you pressed against the curtains, called by the dying, despairing, downtrodden―” He gasped and stood from his perched position on the table. Lavellan stared up at him. Cole was so confusing. “Ravens,” was all he said before he was gone.

They stared at the space Cole used to occupy.

“What…?” asked Blackwall. “Wait. Why are we here?”

Dorian blinked, looked around. “Let’s not dawdle here, shall we? All this blood is making me homesick.”

But Lavellan remembered Cole, could not forget him. He once called Cole the Guardian of Skyhold and Lavellan didn’t understand. Why would Cole side with Solas? He was Compassion, he hated making others suffer needlessly, so _why_?

He shook his head. “East,” he said.

Cole was right. To the east of that room was a small storage shelter with boxes of uncorrupted lyrium on shelves.

“Alright, we need three boxes. Dorian, stack them on me and you two make sure I don’t get jumped by a Red Templar.” He paused. “Put an extra box.”

Dorian raised a brow as he stacked the boxes. “Why?”

“Just in case I drop one.”

“You increase the likelihood of dropping one by adding the burden.”

Lavellan shrugged. “I’m a strong boy.”

Dorian shook his head and stacked the final box none too gently. Their weight was bearable but he knew the longer he held them, the more he would strain. They moved through the courtyard quick, even spotted Bull, Sera, and Vivienne on a bridge above them.

A band of Red Templars ambushed them in one of the courtyards and there was Blackwall bashing shields with a Templar, Dorian with his deft spellcasting, and Lavellan scuttling like a Maker-damned crab while praying he wouldn't get skewered _oh gods_. Of course, an arrow flew at him. He turned away in time and it hit one of the boxes instead, a scant few millimetres from his fingers.

Well. That was potentially damaged.

The Templar who shot at him fell in a seizure of electricity.

Blackwall and Dorian dealt with the band and returned to Lavellan’s side. Dorian eyed the arrow.

“Told you we’ll need extra," said Lavellan.

“Don’t get smug.”

They returned to the Great Hall, found Templar Behemoths parading around in the place, Cassandra hacking away with great zest and fury. There were more senior Templars here thanks to Vivienne, Sera, and Bull. 

One of the Red Templars stepped foot in one of Varric’s traps and collapsed from the elemental capsules. Lightning.

Cassandra and Bull ripped into the larger enemies, Varric and Vivienne providing cover fire on a scaffolding. Any Red Templar who got it in their heads to climb the ladder met Vivienne’s spirit blade. Sera was in the thick of things, arrows flying everywhere but never missing, and Cole slipped in and out of awareness, helping where he could. Lavellan scanned the fight for Solas.

He was on the upper levels, keen eyes assessing the field and providing support.

Lavellan gestured for Dorian and Blackwall to help. He placed the lyrium boxes down and analysed the field. 

He set to work on eliminating the opposition’s archers.

Once the wave diminished, Ser Barris and the Templars passed the lyrium around and consumed them. Lavellan looked on in vague discomfort. All he could see when he watched the blue clouds were Cullen’s tremors, breakdowns, pleas to be relieved from duty, and the repeated mantra of, _I can’t do this, Maker, I need to take it, I_ need _it. Please, Inquisitor, don’t let me._

But they worked. He couldn’t deny that.

While the Templars worked on taking the barrier down, the Inquisition kept the Red Templars off them as they rushed forward in waves.

A barrier coated him at one point. Wasn’t Solas. Too rigid, brittle. Vivienne then. Her barriers damaged when they shattered, but he preferred the flexibility of Solas'. Was it strange for him to have a preferred barrier?

He suffered a blow to his gut during the fight and his lungs spasmed with the hit. A gash on the leg, then slapped away with a red lyrium claw.

His inner cheek cut on his teeth and he spat the blood into the eyes of a Red Templar.

Lavellan refrained from using the sunder. He had to be careful. There was still Envy to take care of.

Once the wave finished, the Templars successfully took the barrier down. They cheered. His companions passed around healing potions and Solas walked over, pushed one to Lavellan's chest and frowned at his leg. He ran his hand over it and the pain eased, skin stitching slowly.

“Solas, save your energy,” he said.

“That is your leg. I will not have you vaulting about like a hyperactive hare with a lacerated thigh.”

He sighed. “Telsilelan[4].”

Solas gave him a pointed look which all but silenced any complaining Lavellan had. Mostly. He grumbled and took stock of his team’s state.

Cassandra had a cut on her forehead, Bull realigned his broken nose without fuss, Blackwall was miraculously untouched. Or maybe not miraculously. It was the beard, Lavellan swore. Varric and Vivienne were fine, so were Solas and Dorian. Good, his mages were alright. Sera had a bruise blooming on her cheek and a few shallow cuts on her sides, but other than that, alright. They were in various states of bloodstained.

Lavellan moved his thighs after Solas finished and thanked him, chugging the potion down. 

“Alright,” he said as he rolled his shoulders. “I’m kicking that demon in the face. If you’re too injured or exhausted, stay here.” Not that any of them would. They were already readying their weapons when he had finished talking. Lavellan smiled.

Ser Barris informed him that the Templars were in no state to continue, far too drained from taking down the barrier. Lavellan nodded and promised he’d bring him the demon’s head.

And off they went outside. It led to an open area, a shrine of sorts, and the Breach was an unsightly feature of the grey skies in the distance.

“No fair, no fair!” shrieked the Envy demon, wherever it was. “I never got to touch any of you. So selfish. You and them, those… shadows! Wouldn’t let me in. We are the same but you wouldn’t let me in! Now, I’m _no one_.” The demon surfaced from the ground, its limbs bent wrong.

“Dark and desperate, death to make yourself alive. I used to be like you.” Cole marched up to it, stared it down with fierce resolution. “I’m not anymore. You shouldn’t be either.”

Envy surged forwards with a cacophonous shriek towards Cole.

Lavellan dashed forward in a dance of blades. Red Templars scaled the walls and clambered towards the shrine.

He dodged Envy’s slash, kept retreating.

“Archers, to Envy!” he ordered. “If you see it start to burrow and there’s something suspicious under you, get out of its range! Solas, defence and support. Vivienne, attack and support. Dorian, defence and attack.” He pushed himself up on the shoulders of an approaching Red Templar, stabbed his neck, used him as a jumping board to propel himself to another Templar. Hit his daggers against their visor as hard as possible. The metal clanged and the Red Templar staggered back in shock.

Lavellan stabbed into their neck.

His mind whirled as he evaluated the field.

“Cassandra, Blackwall, channel the Red Templars to you! Bull, we’re hitting that damn demon where it hurts.”

“Hell yeah!”

Cole fought too, a whisper of a shadow, the refraction of light as it glinted off his blades. Cuts appeared on Envy’s skin where neither he nor Bull slashed. Barrier around Lavellan. Solas. It was embarrassing how much that pushed him to hit harder, be faster.

They gained ground, pushed back against the Red Templars. Blackwall rammed one over the wall.

Soon, Envy couldn't escape. Wherever it fled, someone awaited with steel, spell, or arrow.

It was Cole who made the final blow. Not that they would remember him, not yet.

Envy died screeching, grasping, flailing for what it could never have and could only hope to attain. The silence that followed was strange. It always was after a victory. This victory at least felt better than the one in Redcliffe.

Redcliffe. Wow, all that was really within a day, huh?

It was night now. Only the braziers that the mages lit lent any light as well as the rising moon.

“It is done,” said Cassandra, sheathing her sword.

“Oh thank Andraste,” sighed Dorian and he sat, leaning back against one of the statues.

“I’m going to need a bath. Maybe four,” said Sera as she rubbed her arms. “Eugh. It bled all sticky.”

Vivienne breathed heavily, leaned against her staff, closed her eyes to regain composure. Varric was laughing softly to himself, clapping Blackwall on the back.

“I need to get less crazy friends,” said Varric.

“We _are_ the less crazy friends,” said Lavellan.

He looked for Solas. There, speaking with Cole. Nobody seemed to notice.

They remained there, watching the stars or bathing in the afterglow of success, told stories about what happened even though they were all there.

“I was on top of a wall! Then I saw the yellow circle, thought, ‘Ah shit’ and fell off,” Varric retold.

“Yeah, right. Just say you tripped,” said Bull.

“Mind repeating that? I know where you live.”

“Fancy that. It’s almost like we all live in the same place.”

“You know what I mean.”

Lavellan smiled, chuckled as he got up and approached Solas and Cole. Solas turned to face him.

“I see you two have met,” said Lavellan.

“Yes. It’s fascinating. Cole appears to be a spirit in a human form. It is no possession, but he is able to be physical, while still drawing on his abilities as a spirit.”

“I want to help,” said Cole.

Lavellan’s heart hurt again. He wanted to help. Did he think it would help to join Solas?

He was about to respond when the clanking of Templar armour approached. Ser Barris and what’s left of Therinfal’s Templars approached them, vaguely looking like children preparing for admonishment.

Lavellan steeled himself and met them.

“Thank you,” said Ser Barris. “We are forever in your debt. Andraste be praised, she shielded you from the demon’s touch.”

It was mostly the ancient collective of long-dead elves residing in his mind.

Barris looked down, crushed, disappointment streaked across his features. “We’ve not much to offer. We have been corrupted, and our officers were either ignorant or complicit. Those of us here are forever in your debt.” He straightened and drew himself together. “Whatever the Inquisition needs of us, we’re ready to follow.”

Lavellan gazed at Barris, at the Templars behind him. They were lost now, nowhere to go. He turned around and looked at the Breach in the distance.

Barris looked at it too and an understanding formed between them.

“You know what needs to be done,” said Lavellan. “You were corrupted, yes. Betrayed, overwhelmed, fought those you used to be friends with, those you shared meals with.” A few of the Templars looked away, eyes glistening. A few strangled breaths, almost sobs, but they wouldn’t let themselves weep. Not yet. Not until they were in the privacy of a dark room. “But you know what I also saw?”

He met Barris’ eyes, met the Templars’ eyes.

“I saw tenacity. Valour. It was painful, yet you were steadfast. I saw helping hands, camaraderie, loyalty.” Lavellan clasped his hands behind his back. “I would like to extend an alliance to you all. We will provide shelter, weapons, and supplies if you help with the Breach. If you choose to accept, just letting you know, we will also be expecting the rebel mages to join us at Haven.”

“I beg your pardon?” exploded Cassandra.

“Darling, are you feverish?” asked Vivienne.

Lavellan resisted sighing. “Haven is a place of neutrality. We are focused on stopping the Breach and restoring order. I want to give both groups and us time to rest, recuperate, and then I want to sit us all down and we’re going to have a talk. Like good, civilised people. There won’t be any explosions this time, hopefully.”

“Maker, this is actually happening,” whispered Varric behind him.

“Those are the terms,” said Lavellan. “Will you accept?”

This was the hard part. The Templars could still decline. Barris turned to his comrades and Lavellan couldn’t read their faces.

“Templars!” cried Barris. “Do we accept?”

For a tense, crushing moment, there was dead silence as the Templars gave each other looks, uneasy, uncertain. Then―

They roared, put their fists out in agreement.

Lavellan almost collapsed in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole is FINALLY here. Still trying to find his voice but man, I love writing his dialogue.
> 
> Anyway, Lavellan's trying to do a Conclave 2.0 and hoping the only explosion he'll have to put up with is Vivienne yelling at the mages.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
>   
> [1] **Ma halani:** Help me[⇧]  
> [2] **Ar'an amahn:** We (are) here[⇧]  
> [3] **Vara!:** Leave[⇧]  
> [4] **Telsilelan:** Worrier[⇧]


	16. Pedestal of salt

_remnants of a storm—_

* * *

Who knew being yelled at for four hours would be a stressful experience?

Lavellan leaned against the doorframe of the Chantry doors and watched the mages and Templars’ retreating backs, drained of everything. The talks had lasted for… honestly, he didn’t know how long. Too long. Far, far too long.

But for now, they had reached an uneasy truce.

Cassandra stood beside him and watched them leave as well while the residents of Haven trailed their gazes after the Templars and mages, boggled, and turned those boggled stares to him.

“Why are they staring at me?” he asked.

“You do not realise it, do you?” Cassandra answered.

“Realise what?”

She gestured at the Chantry, her brows raised. “This? The talks between the Templars and mages? This is what Divine Justinia sought to accomplish with the Conclave. Unknowingly or not, you have continued her work.”

Lavellan swept his gaze across the faithful who whispered to themselves, smiling, perhaps praising the Herald of Andraste for giving them peace.

_All of this buried under ice._

“You went in with a band of Templars and mages yelling at one another, and once the doors opened, they were calm. Cooperative. The legends of you grow further,” she said. “It was commendable.”

He laughed. “Thank Josephine.”

Cassandra clasped his shoulders and smiled.

“And thank you, to you as well.” She looked away, hurt flickering in her eyes. “I wish she could have been here to see it. I shall speak with you later. I need to assist Commander Cullen with ensuring the Templars have a place to stay.”

He bid her goodbye and retreated into the warmth of the Chantry, though he found Vivienne scrutinising him, half hidden by the shadows cast by the braziers. She had been part of the talks too.

“And so, the Mage-Templar war has ended,” she remarked.

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“Angry?” She paused and thought on it while she walked towards him. “No. Merely considering the consequences of the events you have set in motion.” She paced but he stayed still, followed her movements with his eyes instead. A trick he had learned. She was trying to unnerve him by moving so much, whether she meant to or not, to make him fidget. Funnily enough, it was her who had taught him to stand his ground and follow with his gaze instead.

“Are you worried about the lyrium supplies needed?” he asked. “The Chantry should have stockpiles, but we need to provide for both groups. I’ll ask Josephine to open negotiations with the dwarves, maybe ask Varric if he has any contacts.”

A flash of approval, quick to disperse like the steam hissing from newly formed ice.

“That, and the possibility that Abominations amongst the mages will increase. Even more so with the Veil damaged. Fortunately, you have the Templars now. Pray they will suffice.” Her face hardened. “No. Prayers will not be enough. Action, my dear. I suppose you’ve already covered these concerns during the talks, however.”

“Thank you for bringing them up, regardless. Everything must be considered. Our enemy is capable of terrible things and I don’t want to unwittingly aid this Elder One by being careless.”

She nodded. “Good.”

Lavellan was ready to crawl out his skin. Speaking to Madame Vivienne was like walking on a thin ledge and he had to use all of his concentration just to make sure he wouldn’t fall. He was ready to cut the conversation off there and retreat, but she wasn’t finished.

“What do you plan to do about the Chantry when this is over?” she asked.

He raised a brow. “That’s the Chantry’s business, not mine.”

“Darling, humility does not befit you, not when you are already shaking the very foundations of history. However this ends, you will undoubtedly have a say in it.”

“Is that so?” he asked. “And you’d like to have a say in it by influencing me, I suppose?”

She smiled. “Try as I might, you are steadfast.”

 _Steadfast_ , Envy had called him, and he repressed his shudder at the memory.

“I cannot influence you,” she said, “but I can ask you to consider. What future do you see for the Chantry?”

He looked outside once more, at Haven and those she sheltered, those who sought a place for peace and hope.

“There’s… contentious history. Between the Chantry and the Dalish. The Chantry breeds fear rather than hope for some.” Lavellan crossed his arms and drummed his fingers on his bicep. “It fears what it doesn’t understand.”

“Are you talking about magic?” she asked.

“Not just magic, but yes. Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him. Yet I don’t see mages in the Chantry. They’re making rules over what they don’t completely understand or have no perspective of.” He shook his head. “No, never mind.”

“No, continue. I’d like to hear this.”

When they had met, he had no idea what to think about the situation. The concerns of humans weren’t theirs so long as it didn’t affect the Dalish, but that was a dangerous line of thinking because that was when divisions formed, and when divisions formed, so did conflict. His judgement was far more nuanced now. It wasn’t the ‘right’ judgement or perspective by any means, just one among several others. 

Lavellan chewed on his lip. “My sister is a Dreamer. She is far more stubborn than me, so demons don’t tend to try to approach her because she isn’t susceptible. But the danger is still there. Growing up, I always feared for her. I couldn’t protect her in her dreams, and I never wanted to be the one to hunt her down if she became possessed. I wanted her to have a safe place. A place where she can learn magic safely. I trusted our Keeper, but still. I worried.”

“Of course, darling. It is as you say. Nobody would ever want to be the one to kill a loved one if they become Abominations. If you knew this, why did you not try to get her to a Circle?”

He scowled then. “The Circles as they are now is ineffective. The Templars have too much power over mages and it’s imbalanced and they’ve taken their actual duties too far. But at the end of the day, magic is a weapon. A tool. Dangerous, yes, but so is a sword if you’re waving it around like a halfwit. It needs training which the Circle provides, but not subjugation, and not fear.” Lavellan made a face and rubbed the back of his head. There went his mouth again. This was why he got into arguments with Solas.

In Lavellan’s defence, Solas was such an idiot sometimes. Why did he love him again?

Ah, right.

Because Lavellan was also an idiot.

“Anyway,” he said, “those are my thoughts on the matter. Right now, I’m focusing on the Breach and stopping this Elder One.”

Vivienne smiled at him. It wasn’t warm but it was genuine. He wasn’t sure whether he messed up or did something good by garnering it.

“Such interesting turns your mind takes,” was all she said. She was likely still sizing him up, and so was he.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said and nodded. “I’ll have to take my leave. The talks have exhausted me some.”

“Rest well then, darling.”

He walked away, head held high, and only once he was out of her sight did he release a heavy sigh and relaxed. Always pulled taut around her. Lavellan shook himself out and got rid of the tension. There was still much left to do. He still hadn’t found that damn cavern near the trebuchet. Maybe it was covered.

There was nobody around the trebuchet when he neared. Oh good. Nobody would see him crouching like a madman and digging around for caverns. He stood at the trebuchet, tried to recall what he did.

“If the avalanche was coming from up there,” he muttered and ran from the trebuchet, away from the imaginary Corypheus. The force of the avalanche had flung him back and he fell somewhere. Around the area he was standing on. He had fallen into it last time because the planks of wood covering it broke―

There!

Lavellan knelt over the wooden platform and knocked on it. Hollow. A draught drifted between the planks and he drew his dagger, pried one off. He grinned at the dark space below. The force of the draught slapped that grin right off.

He dropped a rock into it to determine how far of a fall it was.

Drop, then a skid. Maybe he’d grab a rope and scout it out. Or even leave a rope hanging there if he didn’t have time and hide it so it wouldn’t get damaged during the fighting.

“What are you doing?”

Lavellan jolted and almost dropped his dagger down the cavern. He put the plank back over it and looked over his shoulder at the speaker.

Cole sat on the rocks, legs swinging, head tilted as he watched Lavellan.

_“Has anybody seen Cole?”_

_“Who?”_

_“Cole! You should remember him by― Forget it, I’ll look myself.”_

_Lavellan couldn’t help himself. All this talk of Solas and his army of demons and spirits had him worried._

“Hello Cole,” Lavellan greeted.

Cole looked at the wooden platform, then back at Lavellan.

_“I don’t understand.” Lavellan didn’t. He truly, truly did not. “Cole, please―”_

_“You don’t have to,” he said._

_Twice betrayed. Couldn’t do it three times over. Now he was just a fool._

_Cole read his mind. “It’s not a betrayal. Cole never betrayed you. I am Compassion.”_

_“You can’t just― It doesn’t matter what you’re called, you’re still―” It hurt. Everything hurt. Everything hurt and he was angry. “Fine!” he barked. “Go then! Farewell,_ Compassion _.”_

Cole stopped swinging his legs.

His eyes widened behind his curtain of blond hair and the brim of his hat.

“There’s so much hurt. Buried, burrowing, bursting, and you brought it with you when the wheel turned back and made you the axle. Why did he do that?”

“Why did who do what?”

“Me. Him. I left. You were hurting and I left, and then you hurt even more.” He shook his head. “Why?”

Lavellan sheathed his daggers and stared at his boots. Why indeed. He had often wondered that himself.

“I don’t know, Cole.”

“You gave them your heart and they broke it,” murmured Cole, voice low. “The Wolf cradled it while he burned it, the Bull didn’t care after the hands told him to drop it, and I turned away. _Why?_ ”

“Well if you don’t know, then I don’t know either,” said Lavellan, masked how hard his heart was pumping just to overcome the crushing sensation surrounding his ribs.

“ _Ma vhenan, there is only death on this path._ You want him to stop, you want him to stay, but you don’t think you’re enough. _Why couldn’t you have left this be? Because I fight for this world just as you fight for yours._ It’s deep but I can still see the bottom and it’s dark but the water is clear.”

Lavellan shook his head. “Cole, don’t. You’ll overwhelm yourself.”

“There’s so much.”

“Yes.”

His blue eyes cut into Lavellan and rubbed the wound raw. “And you’re drowning. You see them all again and worry about your old mistakes. Then you worry that you make new mistakes by fixing old mistakes, and then you worry you’re no better. Hypocrisy? Regret?”

“Can’t tell if you’re talking about Solas or me.”

“You laugh to gasp for air but only water fills your lungs. You’re not set, you sway with whatever you’re called to be, and old shadows press into you, want you to wake up. Old spirits, old wounds, the hand of truth, the dagger of secrets. Shifting faces and he asked who you are― Wait.” Cole paused and Lavellan was lost. What was Cole seeing? “It’s ancient,” he murmured, dark and foreboding.

The Well of Sorrows tittered.

“Ignore it,” Lavellan urged.

“I can’t,” he replied.

Worth a shot. There were a few disagreements when he had let Cole stay, and honestly, Lavellan wasn’t sure why he had agreed either. Why did he let Bull, Solas, and Cole in so close?

Right. Because he had a wretched heart.

“You can’t rip it out,” said Cole. “You’ll die. I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to.”

“You can’t promise that Cole.”

“I’m not him.”

Lavellan peered at him and Cole was so resolute and determined, fierce in his wisping way. This was Cole. Not Compassion. Well, they were both, but… this Cole was not spirit, not human; straddled between. Compassion had shed its humanity.

Cole looked at the wooden platform where the cavern was.

“Cold, cracked, cloying. Smoke on your back and ice in your lungs. I can check underneath. Make it less painful, make you warm.”

He blinked at Cole, his heart softening in familiar fondness. “You’d do that?”

“It won’t be hard.”

“You’ll do it anyway,” said Lavellan with a warm smile.

“Probably.”

So Lavellan nodded. “Alright. I appreciate it. Thank you for trying to help.”

Cole stayed quiet, then tipped his head, hat hiding the rest of his face. Lavellan blinked and he was gone. But he remembered.

Speaking of preparations for inevitable treks through the cold, Lavellan swung by the blacksmith and Harritt dusted his hands off when he saw Lavellan.

“There you are,” he said. “Finished that armour you asked for.”

“You’re a champion.”

Harritt gestured him into his cabin where Lavellan’s armour rested on a table.

“Made good use of all that ram leather you got for us. Lined the inside of the coat with fennec fur as well. Should keep you warm. You sure you don’t want chainmail underneath? I know you got your mages with you, but it would give me peace of mind.”

Lavellan ran his hands over the coat. Nicely made as always. He never gave Harritt enough credit, what with all the insane schematics for armour Lavellan had thrown his way, and not once did he complain. Much. He always followed through. Harritt’s gear or gear made under his supervision had seen them through many battles.

“Weighs me down. But thanks for the suggestion.”

Harritt nodded. “Alright. Try it on. Let me know if something’s even a little bit off. Leave your old armour, I’ll see if I can scrap some parts.”

Harritt exited to give Lavellan privacy while he tried on the armour. He stepped outside and nodded. Significantly warmer. Once Harritt gave it his approval after making Lavellan run, jump, dive, and roll around, he returned to his work and Lavellan turned his gaze towards the soldiers training. Bull, Blackwall, Cullen, and Cassandra were with them.

Cassandra and Cullen were speaking with a few Templars while Bull and Blackwall sparred.

Bull rammed into Blackwall’s shield but Blackwall stood his ground, skidded back a few inches. Lavellan approached and watched.

They stayed like that for a while. Bull pushed against the shield; Blackwall strained to keep Bull away. Then Bull would step back, roll his shoulders, and do it again and Lavellan raised a brow.

“What are you two up to?” he asked.

They separated and Bull grunted.

“I wanted to run into something,” he explained. “Get rid of all that crap with the time magic and the demons.” He shuddered and grumbled, “Hated the demon the most.”

Lavellan shrugged. “It’s dead now.”

“That’s why I like you, Mercy. Always looking at the bright side of things. Nice gear by the way.”

Blackwall chuckled. “You do know we’ll probably face more demons?”

“This is why I don’t like you, Beardy.”

“Beardy.”

“It’s a work in progress. Varric already calls you Hero or something. Gotta knock you down a peg or two.”

Blackwall rammed into Bull and guffawed when Bull fell on his ass and groaned. Lavellan shook his head with a chuckle and left the two to it.

Two weeks. They would prepare and try to close the Breach in two weeks, and then Corypheus would come. There were preparations left to do. Cole would help Lavellan secure his escape, and Chancellor Roderick would return from Val Royeaux today so Lavellan had to find him and somehow steer the conversation to the path of escape. Last time, Haven was caught off-guard. Now, he wanted them ready for evacuation.

Haven’s injured needed to be mobilised quick with enough supplies to last the journey to Skyhold. Maintain trebuchets so they would fire properly. They had more forces now what with the Templars and mages so there was more firepower, but how could he increase their survivability? Some of the mages were children or elderly too. 

In the end, it all boiled down to one goal:

Try to save as many lives as possible.

Minimise the lives lost at Haven, secondary being survive the ordeal to lead the Inquisition and be there to help stop Corypheus, while keeping Solas in check. Not that he was doing a spectacular job of it.

“For somebody who just accomplished what the Conclave couldn’t, you sure look miserable,” said Varric.

Lavellan started. He’d walked a few ways away from Haven and was now on one of the stone bridges leading to it. Varric was there, looking out over the sides towards the mountains in the distance.

“Varric,” he greeted. “Escaping Cassandra again?”

“Ha! No, not this time. I just wanted to find a good view. I do this thing where I try to come up with a really outlandish comparison. Keeps my storytelling muscles working.”

Lavellan leaned over the side with him and watched as well. “What have you got so far?”

“Well, so far, I’ve compared the mountain ranges to the uneven surface of human skin when it shrivels after being burnt.”

“That did _not_ go where I thought it would.”

“Good on me then,” said Varric. “But have you considered writing? Seriously, getting either of the Templars or the mages would have been a plot twist, but you got _both_. And you _ended the war_.” He let out a disbelieving laugh. “You just keep dishing out surprises, don’t you, Glowy?”

_Oh, just you wait._

“That’s me. I live to entertain. Fall out of the Fade, travel time, kick demon ass, close the gaping asshole in the sky…”

“Help refugees, hire Qunari spies, hire a mercenary group who started out wanting to kill you,” listed Varric. “That’s… a lot. I know things have been a bit fast lately. Maferath knows I’m barely keeping up. But what about you? You’re the one in the thick of it.”

Lavellan traced the stone of the bridge and chewed on his lip.

“I’m super stressed,” he admitted. “The things I saw in the future… I want to circumvent a few variables.”

“A few. Why does it sound like you meant to say ‘all’?”

He snorted. “What? Me? No!”

“Look Glowy, it’s good to be prepared. Really. I, for one, am glad we got so many people trying to plan ahead. But shit, you need to rest. Like you said, you fell out of a hole in the sky, fought a demon who messed with your head, travelled time where you saw a traumatic future, fostered peace between two groups who’ve been at war until recently, and now you’re trying to close the hole you fell out of?” Varric took a breath. “Andraste’s tits, how are you alive?”

Lavellan’s laugh was dry, brittle, a little manic. “I don’t know Varric. I don’t know.” He _should_ be dead.

“I know how you’re going to keep being alive. You’re going to take a break, however you take a break. Sleep? Hunt? Hobbies? You got any hobbies besides shooting at or slicing things?”

“I do.” Lavellan wrung his fingers. It had been a while since he did any wood carvings. “I whittle. Haven’t had time lately though.”

Varric’s face lit up. “There you go! Whittle away, Glowy. Whittle away. Just… do something that takes your mind off things. We can’t always work― Well, maybe Curly can, but you don’t wanna be like Curly, trust me.”

“Commander Cullen is a sensible man.”

“The monster goes to sleep with socks on.”

“ _I_ sleep with socks on. I freeze my balls out here, Varric.”

Varric gave him a long, hard look, and made a pained noise. He clutched his chest as if he had been shot and turned away with a hand raised between them like a barrier.

“Maniacs. Every single one of you.”

“You knew what you were staying on for.”

He groaned. “I think I’d rather demons.”

Lavellan grinned and enjoyed the silence that befell them, the sun warm on his face. Well, he _did_ bring his whittling knives with him when he left the clan. They should be in his pack in the cabin.

“Hey Glowy?”

“Hm?”

Varric hesitated and Lavellan angled his head towards him, waited.

He shook his head. “Seriously. I’m worried about you. Take care of yourself, alright?”

Lavellan bumped Varric with his shoulder. Varric had worried before and Lavellan never listened. Foolish.

“I’ll do my best. Thanks for looking out for me.”

Varric smiled.

* * *

The weeks passed. The Templars regained their strength and the mages were there as backup should the Templars prove not enough for the Breach. Haven was sorted too. They were ready for an evacuation after Lavellan raised his concerns to the advisors about this Elder One and lied that he heard of Haven perishing in the Redcliffe future. Chancellor Roderick told them of the pilgrimage path after a _tedious_ conversation ― or argument depending on who you asked ― and the path had been cleared. Because Roderick and he may have their differences, but at the end of the day, they cared about Haven and those in need of shelter.

“Should we not just evacuate them fully then?” asked Josephine. “If we are to come under attack?”

“We’ll begin evacuating the injured and the ill, then the children and less able-bodied,” he said. “But if Haven is empty, the Elder One will keep going until he finds us. Finds me. Then where would we be? Out in the open, vulnerable?”

“He’s right,” sighed Cullen as he rubbed the back of his neck. “We can’t evacuate them early either. The medics need time to sort out preparations, so does everyone. “

“I’ll have scouts on lookout,” said Leliana.

Before, they had celebrated after the Breach closed and he regretted that he’d take that celebration away now, but the payoff of death was not worth it. They could celebrate in Skyhold. If his tampering hadn’t affected that outcome. It was Solas’ castle, and they were still in the Frostbacks, so he doubted the development would alter.

Lavellan geared himself, took deep breaths while he held the stone in his hand, before he tucked it back in his pocket and met with Solas and Cassandra who waited by Haven’s gate with the Templars arrayed behind them.

The march back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes was solemn. Their arrival more so.

The Breach stretched above, consuming the skies caught within its vicinity. Lavellan couldn’t resist staring. It pulled at him. It was beautiful in a haunting, foreboding way, a way that couldn’t be if this world were to remain intact.

Solas stood beside him, the wooden blocks on his staff knocking against each other. Lavellan eyed the blocks. He had taken Varric’s advice and returned to whittling but found he couldn’t think of anything to carve and instead whittled down blocks of wood. It was still therapeutic if a bit of a waste of wood. But those blocks though… They really were not doing Solas’ staff any justice. If he was going to draw odd looks by having them tied to his staff for Lavellan’s sake, Lavellan could at least make the wood pretty.

They would be wolves. Obviously.

“Are you ready?” Solas asked and snapped Lavellan out of his reverie about wooden wolves and whittling.

“I have to be.”

“The injured are being evacuated as of this moment,” said Cassandra.

Lavellan nodded. “Good.” He pursed his lips as he stared up at the Breach. “Let’s get to stitching the hole in the sky, shall we?”

Cassandra and Solas turned to instruct the Templars on how to weaken the Breach as Lavellan stepped forward. The mark sputtered with green and the pull skated over his skin.

He looked over his shoulder. The Templars gave a determined yell as they knelt, sword held in front of them, and the Veil wavered. Solas nodded at him. Lavellan thrust his hand out and the force of attraction between the Anchor and Breach somehow placed a force of repulsion on him. He struggled to keep the connection open.

But the Templars weakened the Breach more and more as the seconds passed.

Lavellan yelled and clenched his fingers, pushed with his hand, The Veil wrapped around him, pulsated. The Well of Sorrows whispered something unintelligible at the back of his mind and―

_Close, you damn thing!_

The Veil closed, and the energy flung them back. Lights exploded and he closed his eyes from the barrage of brightness.

He stayed down even as the lights flooded away, winded and getting accustomed to the darkness of the night sky again. Cassandra and Solas’ blurry faces hovered in his vision. Somebody helped him sit up.

“You did it!” said Cassandra.

Lavellan blinked blearily and waited until everything returned to focus. The Templars cheered from where they were.

The stars greeted him.

Lavellan threw his head back and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go kiddies. It’s Corypheus the Ugly Ballsack-Looking Baddie time. 
> 
> Cole is my baby. He is baby. Also terrific plot device <3 wahahah. Been thinking about how he says stuff and he's not actually fancy or verbose, not like Solas. He just tends to be very abstract. Still trying to nail his voice though.
> 
> My laptop **died** so I lost some of my plot notes pffpfpptptptffft-- All good though, they're all in my noggin. But still, how annoying


	17. Litanies for the lost minds

_the tragedy of a heart on fire―_

* * *

The waiting was the hardest.

Haven was mostly deserted. Everyone had set out on the pilgrimage path and those who remained were those who volunteered to stay and defend.

Lavellan watched where the Breach used to hover then the mountains in the distance, his breaths fogging with every exhale, ready for the inevitable when dots of torch fire from Corypheus’ army would appear. His right hand held his dagger hilt while the left wrapped around his grounding stone. Behind him, Cullen barked orders to his soldiers and Leliana consulted with her scouts.

Varric, Blackwall, and Sera huddled in a corner, speaking in hushed whispers, tense and ready for the fight. Bull was with the Chargers, no doubt instructing them as well. Cole had isolated himself in a corner. Dorian, Cassandra, and Vivienne discussed something or the other.

The sound of knocking wood approached and Solas stood beside Lavellan, staring out at the mountains.

“You should rest,” said Solas. “If for a moment. Any bow, no matter how supple, breaks at a certain point.”

Lavellan’s lips quirked but that took too much energy so it didn’t hold for long. “If you’re going to mother-hen me, I’m afraid there’s a line. So far, Varric, Cullen, and Cassandra are in front. Ah, but I suppose Cole has joined too. Occasionally the Iron Bull.”

“Do you not suppose that’s saying something?”

“That I’m surrounded by worrywarts.”

“That you are neglecting your health.”

Lavellan’s expression turned embittered. “I’ll rest when I’m allowed to die.”

“What was it you said? Not everything has to break before it is considered not alright?”

He slanted Solas a glare, then breathed out and relaxed, if only for a bit, and murmured, “I have to keep going. Without momentum, I’ll break.”

“That isn’t true,” Solas said softly, secured his grip on his staff as he turned to face Lavellan. His gaze fell on the stone in Lavellan’s hand, something considering in his expression but Lavellan couldn’t read it. He meant to ask, but Haven’s warning bells tolled. His blood chilled, grew barbs which punctured and dragged along the walls of his veins.

Everyone sprung to attention and soldiers rushed to the trebuchets.

They wouldn’t have the numbers to meet Corypheus’ army head-on so triggering avalanches with the trebuchets really was the best bet. Lavellan nodded at Solas who rushed ahead to the gate.

“Fury,” said Cole’s voice and most would have startled, but Lavellan was used to Cole’s sudden appearances by now.

“He has a dragon,” said Lavellan. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You thought it would scare them.”

He clenched his jaw, eyes on the sky. “I should have told them.”

“Adrenaline makes them move. If you stare it down, they’ll find the strength. They might hesitate if you give them time to be scared in the night when nightmares feed. It’s better this way.”

Was it? He shook his head. What’s done was done, and he could feel some of the soldiers glancing at him, taking their cues from him.

So he conversed and planned with Cullen, calm and composed, determined and unyielding.

“My scouts report this army has a mixture of Red Templars and mages with Tevinter garb,” reported Leliana. “Likely the Venatori you spoke of.”

“Only Venatori? No Fereldan mages?”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

Good. “State of the trebuchets?” he asked Cullen.

“They’ve been maintained,” said Cullen, “but the furthest was giving us trouble. I think it’s the cold. Some of the troops should be stationed at their trebuchets.”

“They’re coming in hot, Glowy!” warned Varric. “Any time now!”

Lavellan unsheathed his daggers. “Our trebuchets are all counterweight so they’ll take time to reload. I want groups protecting them. Varric, Vivienne, Blackwall, Cole, and Dorian, guard the first trebuchet. Sera, Solas, Cassandra, Bull and the Chargers, we’re going to the furthest trebuchet. We’ll be under line of fire first, any objections?”

Bull hefted his axe out of its strap. “Nope.”

Everyone drew their weapons and they set out.

The first group stayed at the first trebuchet as Lavellan and his group headed for the furthest trebuchet.

Just in time. The first of Corypheus’ army bore down on them, Venatori spellbinders working with Red Templars, and Lavellan must have invoked everyone in the Elvhen pantheon _and_ the Maker and Andraste as they fought.

“Load the trebuchet!” he yelled and ducked a slash.

He wasn’t sure who did it, but the trebuchet’s arm moved little by little as the wheel spun.

The Venatori spellbinders combined with the animalistic ferocity of the Red Templars was vicious. Had it been this unforgiving of a fight last time? Solas’ barrier wrapped around him, comforting and strengthening, and it gave Lavellan that needed kick to the ass.

Fire skated past him, the heat of it searing.

“Sera! Binder!”

“Pissing getting to it!”

Lavellan’s daggers glanced off the red lyrium on the Templar’s armour so he hit their helm on either side with the dagger hilts. They staggered back. Solas' magic circle flashed beneath the Templar and flames engulfed them.

“They are endless!” cried Cassandra.

“Hold your ground!” he said, prioritised protecting the Inquisition soldiers.

He flipped over a Templar’s shoulders and landed on a Venatori, his daggers burying in the slots of their armour. He used the momentum to leap off, daggers trailing red as they found the Templar’s visor slits. This would have been so much easier with his hook and chain.

Lavellan let go of the daggers as the Templar flailed and screamed and slashed blindly. He dodged the sword and swept his legs out. The Templar fell.

Bull crushed their breastplate with a great swing from his axe. The Templar stopped moving. Lavellan retrieved his daggers and continued his dance. Romantic when put that way, but it wasn’t. It was harsh, unforgiving on their bodies and lives, and it was unsettlingly comfortable. Herald of Andraste. He also heralded death.

The trebuchet fired.

The projectile hit the mountainside and slabs of snow buried a good portion of Corypheus’ army. While there were cheers behind him, Lavellan readied himself.

And in the skies, the dark form of the blighted dragon shrieked and Lavellan yelled for them to move back.

With a single breath, the dragon destroyed the trebuchet.

“Chief, that’s a fucking dragon!” cried Krem.

“Thank you Krem, I thought it was a pigeon.”

“Get up,” Lavellan ordered. “Up. Now. Go!” He ushered them back from the burning trebuchet before the next wave of the army hit. There was a thunderous noise as the other trebuchet fired and caused another avalanche.

They reunited with the first group and helped them with the Venatori and Red Templars.

“Glowy,” huffed Varric after they fought back the first wave. “Did you see the Maker-damned _dragon_ by any chance?”

“Blew fire at us.”

“And this day was going so well.”

Lavellan grinned. “It’s about to get superb.”

“Please stop smiling when you’re covered in blood. You look deranged.”

“Stop yapping,” Vivienne cut in. “We need to get back behind the walls.”

“Oh yeah and that’s gonna defend against the flying thing is it?” Sera spat.

“Better just a dragon than a dragon _and_ the entirety of the army.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lavellan said and headed for Haven. “Retreat back to Haven. The walls should hold against the main bulk of the army for now.”

With little option left, they did. He threw a look over his shoulder and his throat constricted at the sight of the fallen Inquisition soldiers littering the snow. Red seeped into white.

“Don’t,” Solas murmured beside him as they ran.

“No. I have to.” He needed to see. Needed to understand that he held lives in his hands, that every decision he made came with death. It was unavoidable, and all he could do was limit it, but he must never forget what and who was lost.

They closed Haven’s doors behind them but a few Templars and Venatori had already infiltrated, single-minded in their destruction as they caused fires and fought the remaining Inquisition soldiers. The civilians had been evacuated so that was a weight off his conscience.

The dragon flew overhead.

“The Chantry!” yelled Leliana as she shot the last of the intruders. “We can regroup there.”

“It’s the only thing that can hold up against…” Cullen stared at the sky. “Against that thing.”

Once they were within the Chantry walls, they erupted into an argument. Some of the surviving Inquisition soldiers stayed quiet, either exhausted or hurt or intimidated by the assembly of Lavellan’s strange group.

Lavellan examined the others as they argued. He was certain Dorian sprained his wrist because of the awkward way he carried it close to him. Sera’s nose was bleeding, Varric sported a black eye. The rest were in varied states of exhausted.

“We’re sitting ducks here!” Dorian hissed.

“By all means, go outside and say hello to the dragon,” Vivienne said, voice curt and Lavellan noted she leaned slightly on her staff and placed more of her weight on her left leg. Right ankle sprained maybe. Varric and Leliana attended to Blackwall who was mildly concussed. Lavellan’s ribs were still throbbing from when a red-lyrium-covered arm had slammed into him.

“Can you all lower your voices at least?” Varric implored. “Hero here’s looking dazed.”

“‘M Fine,” Blackwall grumbled.

Lavellan already knew what to do, what Corypheus was here for. Cole stared at him from where he had sequestered himself.

“You have a plan,” said Cole and that silenced everyone as they turned their attention to Lavellan. “I don’t like your plan.”

 _You knew this was coming_ , Lavellan thought and gave Cole a faint smile.

Cole looked down, his hat hiding his eyes. “I made it soft when you fall. Warm in the cold.”

“What’s he talking about?” Bull asked.

Lavellan sighed, heavy and weary and worn. “The rest of you need to get out of Haven. Someone needs to block off the path so the enemy can’t follow. There’s one trebuchet left.”

It took them a second.

Not a second longer.

“You want to bury Haven,” said Leliana, grim.

“That implies someone’s staying behind,” Cullen said, tone terse.

Lavellan’s smile never wavered.

A small breath escaped him. “No.”

“With all due respect, Commander. I wasn’t asking for your permission.” Lavellan stared at his left hand. “The Elder One is after me because I’ve disrupted his plans. I’ll give him me. Rip him a new one while I’m at it.”

“Like shit we’re letting you go alone,” Sera protested but it came out a little garbled and thick because of her nose.

“I’m with her,” said Dorian. “What kind of self-respecting Tevinter pariah am I if I don’t even fight against my idiot countrymen?”

“How’s your wrist then?” Lavellan challenged and Dorian glared.

“I can swing a staff just fine.”

“You’re compromised, Vivienne's hurt her leg, Blackwall is concussed, Sera’s bleeding out her nose and her breathing is probably affected.”

“We can still _fight_ ,” Vivienne said.

Lavellan’s gaze softened. “I know. So fight to live another day.”

“Glowy,” Varric warned, “I don’t like goodbye speeches.”

“As if,” Lavellan scoffed and grinned. “You shits think you’re getting rid of me? Get over yourselves. I’ll find a way out of this.”

“I know you like to challenge the odds,” said Cassandra who’d been uncharacteristically quiet for the whole thing, “but there is a limit to gambles.”

“I―”

She stood. “So I will come with you. Do not argue,” she said when he opened his mouth to protest. “I am neither injured nor extremely exhausted. If you will insist on being foolish, I would like to be there to increase the odds in your favour. However I can.” He recognised the staunchness in her posture, the obstinacy of her gaze, and knew he’d have better luck telling the mountains to split than convincing her otherwise.

Lavellan gave in. “Alright. Fine. But you leave when I tell you to.”

“We shall see.”

“Then you’re not coming.”

“Ugh.”

“I will come, too,” said Solas and everyone shot him a look. “I am the only mage who has not been significantly injured. And knowing you, I know you will try to use the mark as a weapon. I know how to soothe the pain that will follow.”

“Oh shit, are we auditioning?” asked Bull. “Alright. I’m not injured either. I’m big, I’m loud, I’ll draw enemy fire.”

Lavellan’s smile turned crooked. “I’m supposed to be the bait.” He shook his head. “No. That’s it. I’m not allowing any more. Stay with the Chargers and everyone here. Keep them safe.”

Bull clenched his fists, his hold on his axe tightening despite how slippery the blood must have made it.

“Krem can lead the Chargers. My guys are enough to cover for the injured. You’re not swaying me.”

“I can break your shin.”

“You won’t.”

“Why are you all so damned stubborn?” Lavellan muttered under his breath. Reflecting back on it, he doubted he would have earned the same insistence in his previous life so he must have done some things right. “Fine! Bull, Cass, and Solas. No more. If anyone else tries, I’ll worsen your injury.” There were thundering noises outside and they stared at the door. “Time’s up. Get out of here. I’ll keep this Elder One’s attention on me and buy you time.”

The noises spurred everyone into moving. Before Lavellan and his group could set out, Cullen laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t try to do more than you can. Let this Elder One hear you and leave as soon as you can. We’ll fire a flare when we’re far enough. You’ll follow us.” That one was an order.

Lavellan chuckled. “Yes, Commander.”

Cullen gave him a solid pat on the shoulder before he turned and helped soldiers get up and moving.

Sera marched up to Lavellan and punched his arm. He yelped and rubbed it with a bewildered look. 

“You’re right batty and so’s outside but you’re not allowed to be the saner one," said Sera with her fierce and scrunched expression and all that blood smearing on her neck and clothes.

He smiled. "I'll be the battiest asshole."

"You better."

Lavellan threw open the Chantry doors as they rushed towards the last trebuchet and tore through the invading ranks of Venatori and Red Templars. They were so thick that he feared they would outnumber Lavellan’s group so he opened sunder after sunder to paralyse and fell them. He pushed through the pain.

The last trebuchet stood abandoned. Lavellan manned the wheel but the mark scored a gash of fire and lightning up his arm and he hissed.

“Here,” said Solas and soothed it.

“Thank you. Keep them off my back,” he said and turned back to the trebuchet.

A few arrows and spells flew too close for comfort during several moments but Solas would throw a barrier up or Cassandra would ram into them or Bull would punch them. At one point, Lavellan spied a spellbinder hiding out behind the trees and he cursed.

A blur of shadow. The spellbinder fell and there stood Cole.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Lavellan all but yelled.

“Helping,” was Cole’s answer and when Lavellan blinked, three more Templars charging towards them collapsed and died.

Iron Bull grunted. “When this is over, you’re explaining what’s going on with that… kid,” he told Lavellan and he refused to be touched by Bull saying _when_ over _if_.

Couldn’t this wheel turn any faster?

“Mahanon!”

A Templar snuck up behind him. He sidestepped their slash and slammed the Templar’s head against the wheel which turned it significantly.

“Thank you for the help,” he chirped and kicked them back. Met their demise at the end of Cassandra’s sword.

Every time Solas’ barrier diminished, it went back up. Lavellan shot Solas a look. He must be pushing himself in between supporting Cassandra and Bull and keeping Lavellan alive.

A torturous and intense few minutes later, turned into what felt like hours, Lavellan turned the trebuchet to the mountain behind Haven.

They dispatched the last of that wave of Venatori and Templars.

“Now go!” he said.

They hesitated.

It was Cole who reassured them.

“It’s alright,” he said and pointed at the wooden planks, broken from the fighting, the cavern below dark and waiting. “There. A way out. He’ll meet us again.”

“But―” started Cassandra.

“You’ll die if you stay,” said Cole and she glared.

“There’s a way out, you said―”

“Cassandra,” Lavellan murmured, gave each of them a small, tired smile, “please. All of you. I’ll have peace of mind knowing you’re safe and I promise I’ll meet you again.”

“That’s not something you can promise,” Bull bit out.

“Watch me.”

Bull stared at him, before he threw his head back and guffawed.

“You’re crazy, you know that, Mercy?”

“I’ve been told. Now seriously. Get out of here.”

The dragon approached.

“Now!” he barked and they faltered for a second but turned and sprinted back to the Chantry. Lavellan turned his back to them and watched the skies, ready for Corypheus, and didn’t look over his shoulder.

Stillness. The soft exhale of his breath, his strangely steady pulse in his ears, the whispers of the Well.

It was a beautiful night tonight. Not even the glow of the fires could temper it.

And the dragon dove for him, breathing fire and scorching a line on the ground. Lavellan rolled out of the way as it landed behind him with an almighty gust from its flapping wings.

The flames were warm, surrounded them. Good thing the trebuchet was untouched.

Lavellan took a breath. Stood.

Corypheus walked out from behind the flames and ordered the dragon to still its roaring. The dragon’s breath was uncomfortably damp and warm on Lavellan's back.

“Pretender, you toy with forces beyond your ken no more,” said Corypheus and Lavellan refrained from laughing. He was not the one holding an Elvhen orb that he knew nothing about. Didn't even know whose it was. Lavellan didn’t bother speaking. Corypheus wanted him confused, fearful, cowering, and uncertain.

He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Corypheus narrowed his eyes at Lavellan's silence. “Mortals often lose their words in the face of the unthinkable, of things they cannot grasp. No matter. I will grant you the certainty you wish. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus.”

“You confused my silence for uncertainty,” said Lavellan. “It was merely that of ambivalence and pity.”

“Brave words. And yet so foolish.” He took out Fen’Harel’s orb, cradled in his sharp, skeletal fingers. The fury that overtook Lavellan was unexpected. How dare he stand there claiming the power of an instrument not his to use, another Tevinter taking from the elves and having the audacity to call it theirs. “But I am not here to sing praises of your supposed courage. I am here for the Anchor.”

Lavellan’s mark flared and he jolted in surprise. The Anchor gravitated towards the orb and pulled his arm with it, red energy crackling around the orb, mixing with green. Lavellan gritted his teeth. Wrong, that was _wrong_. That was Solas’.

And the fury returned to Solas for being such a fool.

Corypheus spoke of his plans, postured about Lavellan’s supposed flailing, his meddling and interruption and gods could this toad please just shut up?

“And you used the Anchor to undo it? The gall.”

Lavellan eyed the orb. If this was a tugging match, who said it was only Corypheus who could do the pulling? He gripped his elbow and yanked on the unseen thread connecting them. Corypheus' eyes widened, tugged forward by Lavellan’s pull.

“All I hear,” Lavellan hissed through clenched teeth, pulled and pulled and _pulled_ , “is a child throwing a tantrum because his parents didn’t pay him any attention! You are no god!”

Corypheus severed the connection between them in slight panic and Lavellan smiled at having shaken him. He marched towards Lavellan in long strides and held him up by the wrists. Lavellan stared him in the eyes. Absolute fury radiated from them both. Lavellan’s lack of struggle worsened Corypheus’ anger into petulant rage.

“You speak of things you do not understand,” he hissed and threw Lavellan towards the trebuchet.

His back hit the trebuchet frame and his head recoiled from the impact and he grunted, fell, winded. His vision swam. How nice of him to escort Lavellan to where he needed to be.

He forced himself to stand even if he was in a daze. Corypheus stood beside his dragon, the flames casting them in irregular shadows, and Lavellan could understand what could make them frightening.

Unfortunately for them, Lavellan faced much, _much_ worse.

“The Anchor is permanent. You have stolen it and its purpose,” he snarled. “So be it. I will find a way to give this world the nation and god it requires.” Behind them, the signal flare flew, a dot of light against the darkness. He readied himself. “But first, you must die. I will not suffer a rival, even an unknowing one.”

Lavellan stood beside the firing lever, head pounding, daggers out in a false show of aggression.

“The only unknowing one is you,” said Lavellan, pulling his lips back in a snarl. “You are arrogant, pathetic, and you are not as grand as you think you are.” There was someone smarter playing them both, someone patient and biding his time, but Lavellan would let Corypheus continue believing he was the ultimate salvation.

It was far, far easier to cut down prey who thought itself safe.

“You are the unknowing rival, and I will not suffer you either!” he declared, opened a sunder above Corypheus and the dragon just to keep them there, and kicked the lever. The trebuchet arm creaked as it fired at the mountain. Lavellan didn’t check to see if it worked, didn’t bother as he ran towards the opening of the cavern and ignored the pain in his hand.

The rush of snow behind him, closer by the second.

Lavellan jumped into the cavern just as the cloud of white and cold closed at the top and the force of it propelled him down the tunnel.

He skidded and slid down the narrow walls, his bow and quiver digging into his back.

And he fell out of its mouth into the icy caves.

Lavellan landed on a bed of furs. Cole must have put these here.

Snow rained down the tunnel on him, pouring without relent, and he scrambled up. The furs soon disappeared beneath the snow. 

His disbelieving laughter echoed in the caves, the icicles glowing an eerie blue above him. He had done it.

No use staying here and waiting for the snow to fill up the cave. He had to hurry.

His head swam. His hand hurt. Oh Creators. Lavellan leaned against the wall to rest momentarily but continued, eventually came to a fork but there were markings on the wall — arrows drawn with charcoal.

Was that Cole's doing too?

Either way, Lavellan followed and arrived at the large cavern where he had first encountered the demons. But they were absent. Did Cole clear them out? He made a note to thank Cole when he next saw him.

But the hardest was yet to come.

Lavellan found the exit and he whimpered at the large expanse of snow. He had bought himself time by not falling unconscious, but it was still a significant distance between him and them. There was a large arrow at the exit pointing down, a box resting beneath it. Lavellan frowned and opened it. There was a thick fur coat inside.

He almost wept as he wrapped it around himself.

“Thank you, Cole,” he whispered. Emboldened by the gesture, Lavellan took his first step out into the snow.

He’d forgotten this. It was on his mind, of course. He knew what this escape would entail and that his survival still wasn’t guaranteed, but he had forgotten how arduous it was. How heavy he felt with each cold step. The snow was thick around his ankles as he trudged through and the wind covered any tracks the others could have left behind. His only markers were the small campfires they had set.

Without the adrenaline of battle and only the wind and snow and the Well in his ears, Lavellan became aware of his fatigue and hurt. His ribs throbbed, his hand pulsated with irregular spikes of lightning, his head pounded with a dull ache. His vision swam in and out of focus.

_Keep going, you cannot fall here._

White. Around him, ahead of him, behind him. Lavellan hummed his mother’s lullaby to keep his mind focused and take it off the cold and exhaustion.

The wind blew snow into his face and he burrowed deeper in the coat. But the chill needled into the marrows of his bone and hooked itself onto any available surface. His humming turned tremulous as his teeth chattered.

At one point, he found a cluster of trees. Lavellan leaned against one, lightheaded. Every breath burned the walls of his lungs, lullaby forgotten.

There was a small campfire and he meant to crouch to check for embers, but his legs gave and he fell into the snow.

“Nnh,” he groaned and tried to push himself up. No embers in the ashes.

He stayed down, choked back a sob.

He couldn’t do it.

It was so desolate, so barren, so lonely. He was all alone. He was going to die alone.

His joints seemed frozen in place and his ligaments might snap if he moved. Lavellan cradled his left hand close to him. But even the pain numbed. He shivered in his coat and feared that if he cried, it would freeze and cover his face and stop his breath. Irrational, but he wouldn’t dismiss it at this point.

A wolf howled in the distance.

Lavellan looked up. “Solas?” he whispered through numbed lips. Was it possible? He recalled Solas could momentarily control a wolf, could form an intrinsic connection with them, but such a spell was taxing. It was rare for him to do so, and often unneeded. Was Solas strong enough to do it now?

The wolf continued its howls.

He took a fortifying breath. Solas or not, it was the encouragement he needed ― a reminder that it wasn’t over.

Lavellan pushed himself up, limbs protesting and leaden, but he was up and that was something.

“One step,” he murmured to himself.

Once he was walking again, the howling stopped. Lavellan huffed out a disbelieving breath. Could it be?

He forced himself forward until the trees disappeared behind him and he was back to the endless expanse of snow and soft snowstorm. He couldn’t bloody see. Lavellan stopped, hopelessness seizing his throat as he looked around, lost.

Another howl. To the left.

His heart stuttered.

Creators, could it truly be Solas?

Lavellan wrapped the coat tighter around himself and went left. The superstitious elves in his clan would have thought it Fen’Harel and go the other way, unwilling to be led astray by the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf misguided Lavellan by guiding, a show of help.

_“What would you prefer Fen’Harel to do if he were to become fond of you?”_

“ _Is_ he fond of me?” Lavellan mused to himself. An effort to keep himself sane.

The howling stopped once he followed the sound and there was no way that was coincidence. Whenever he fell, a howl would spur him back up. Whenever he was lost, a howl would point him in the right direction.

Then again, it was said that wolves were the companions and guardians of the Emerald Knights. So which was it? Protector or deceiver? Neither? Both?

But no matter how many times the wolves howled, Lavellan couldn’t deny that he weakened with every step. The snow deepened. Lifting his legs became an exercise of futility as the exertion and exhaustion weighed them down.

In the distance, he spied a mountain pass and a faint glow beyond.

The howls stopped.

He passed a campfire and this one was still warm. Lavellan almost sobbed anew.

“I’m here,” he gasped. “Please.” The snow was up to his knees, and it was uphill to the pass. He dragged himself up using the boulders around him, fingers numbed even through the gloves.

His vision flickered.

Lavellan stumbled, lurched and fell face-first into the snow. The cold burned into his skin. He reached forwards and clawed into the snow until he could compact it into a weak purchase. Dragged himself, teeth chattering as he gritted them, arms trembling as he strained them.

His shoulders shook from his soft sobs. But there were no tears.

Not here. He didn’t want to die here.

Or maybe he could finally rest. Maybe the world would be alright without him. Why did it have to be him? Why should he be the one to save the world? There were other heroes, others who would band together to stop this and why should it be him? Why should he be the one to cause change? Why should he be the change?

Lavellan stopped pulling himself forward.

He stared at his left hand stretched out ahead of him, gaze hollow. The mark flickered green.

Could he rest now? He had been robbed of it. He had done it, he had saved the stupid world from stupid Solas, but why was he not allowed his rest?

Lavellan closed his eyes. If he would not be allowed rest, then he would take it his damned self.

He fell into darkness.

* * *

It was a lake on the edge of the world.

The sky shimmered with impossible colours and a black wolf peered at him, its largeness as impossible as the hue of the skies. Blood swirled in the crystalline waters and he reached out a sunlit hand, the brightness casting trenches of shadows upon his skin. As endless as the depths of the lake.

He caressed the wolf’s cheek, buried fingers into its fur. Soft, warm. The wolf closed its eyes.

His hands came away coated in melting darkness, thick and viscous. It dripped into the waters and diffused into red. He reached with both hands and smeared the darkness away, revealing white fur beneath.

The wolf opened its eyes and they glimmered blue, not red, imploring.

He understood and raked his fingers through. Washed the slick darkness away with the lake even as the black crawled up his arms. The wolf’s face was soon freed of the muck, white and brilliant fur gleaming, but the black was quick to return. No matter how much he flung it off, it was relentless and tenacious and the wolf was engulfed once more. Its eyes reddened.

The blackness reached his chest and split it open.

* * *

This world was unforgiving, solid, unchanging. He thrashed and gasped and clawed at his throat and his chest and there was an encouraging chorus of hissing whispers.

_Laimathe. Danathe. [1]_

Hands held him down and no, _no_ , let him go.

“Vasrea em!” he roared. “Se telaan vaslana em![2]”

Voices, more hands, and he resisted, thrashed against their grip and yelled and screamed and kicked and flailed.

“…hold…get― Down!”

_Shivana. [3]_

_“Thu? [4]”_

_Hima. [5]_

There was a voice, more focused than the rest. Not a whisper of the Ancients but a solid, anchoring sound. Just as Ancient. Not as faded.

They bid him, “Hamina. Ma ane eth.[6]”

Warmth washed over him and he succumbed to darkness once more.

* * *

Lavellan awoke with a shuddering gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU ALL WANTED HIM TO REST IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED??? IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?? HERE IT IS!!
> 
> Ooh look spooky elven stuff. 
> 
> Listen, the wolves probably weren't Solas' doing in-game but I do what I want.
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Laimathe. Danathe:** The Lost. The Broken[⇧]  
> [2]  
>  **Vasrea em!:** Let me go! (lit. Free me)  
>  **Se telaan vaslana em!:** You(pl.) cannot subdue me![⇧]  
> [3] **Shivana:** Do your duty[⇧]  
> [4] **Thu?:** How?[⇧]  
> [5] **Hima:** Change/Evolve[⇧]  
> [6] **Hamina. Ma ane eth:** Rest. You are safe[⇧]


	18. To guide a burdened soul

_and find your own―_

* * *

His senses returned to full cognition at the pace that ice thawed beneath the sun. Lavellan spent an inordinate amount of time regarding the tent canvas stretched high above him and battled the urge to sob at how it ached to exist. On both a physical and mental scale. He had promised he would return alive and return alive he did but a small part of him wished he didn’t.

The rising pitch of the argument between his advisors and Cassandra finally spurred him to action. He pushed himself up on his elbows and winced as his joints complained at the movement. His teeth tasted of stale lightning.

Mother Giselle who had been sitting beside him turned her head at the movement and tutted, eased him back.

“You must keep resting,” she said. “You have been through a great ordeal. Allow yourself to recover.”

It took a while for him to wrangle his tongue into making productive noises.

“How long have they been yelling at each other?” he rasped. He was surrounded by makeshift beds, likely for the injured, but there were no injured in this tent besides him.

Mother Giselle sighed. “A while. Though they have that luxury thanks to you. Given time to doubt, we turn to blame.”

Lavellan shook off Mother Giselle’s attempts to get him to lie back so she helped him sit up instead. He pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. Someone had taken his gloves off. His fingers were warmer now, had feeling in them. He had… a dream. Maybe. Did he? There were faint memories of elven whispers, but the Well of Sorrows was indecipherable in the background of his mind.

“What of our enemy?” he asked.

The argument broke up and they scattered in a huff. Mother Giselle watched with uneasiness.

“They could not follow,” she said. “A few of the surviving soldiers say they have seen this creature. Man only in form, and even then, barely. Warped by red lyrium. They say he looks as if he is meant to be dead.”

“He is arrogant. Likely believes me dead and the Inquisition rendered helpless.” Lavellan hardened his gaze and swung his legs off the bed. “I doubt he’ll look. He’s far too preoccupied with finding another way to ascend to false divinity.” He surveyed the camp they had assembled. Tents in close quarters, people huddled around fire. “Is everyone alright?”

Mother Giselle hummed in consideration. “We are not dead thanks to your fast action,” she said. “But know that our leaders struggle because of what we, the survivors, witnessed. We saw our defender rise, and fall. Now he has returned. The more our enemy is beyond us, the more our trials seem ordained.”

This again. No matter his age, no matter the battles he had witnessed, the notion of fate still left a vicious aftertaste in his throat. Such cruelty to suffer for a grander scheme. Once, he would have met fate and destiny with fear. Now? Defeat maybe. Exhaustion. The past was a heavy burden, and a heavier shackle, and no relief came from knowing the outcomes. Even less with the risks he took by changing his actions.

“Why must I be the one to save the damned world?” he muttered, head bowed, and looked up at Mother Giselle. What did she see when she looked at him? A little boy playing hero or a holy figure of legend? He wasn't sure which was worse. “They need me to be strong, but I’m not who they’ve made me out to be. It’s only going to crush them in the long run.”

Lavellan stood, still unsteady on his feet, so he leaned against the tent pole for support.

Across the camp, the mood was sullen and dismal. Cassandra pored over a map on the table, head hung, and Leliana had her knees drawn up to her chest, a far cry from her usual confident posture.

A few saw him rise and the dismal fog in their gazes lit with hope, their gazes itching on his skin. Lavellan swallowed the mounting thickness in his throat. He had never known what to do with their reverence, their faith, their hope, and later, their worship. They had built small shrines of him, though nothing grand in fear of the Chantry’s ire. Some would carve him with one hand to his chest, his left outstretched with a halo around it. Some would carve him with a crown of halla horns. Some would carve him as nothing but his marked hand.

How could anyone enjoy this? How could Corypheus seek this? Worship was a terrible, heavy burden.

Mother Giselle’s soft voice sang from behind him and he tensed.

He was grateful that it uplifted everyone’s mood as they sang along, but not like this. Not when their stares were strangling him.

Cassandra’s gaze fell on him and it softened into relief. Seeing her calmed him for a while, but the song crescendoed and the swell of everybody’s faith had his chest constricting anew. They knelt at his feet, hands grasped in prayer.

“I am not your answer,” he wanted to say. “I am not your salvation.”

Not that they would listen.

His gaze scanned the camp, searching for familiar faces. He subtly reached inside his pocket and groped for the stone but it wasn't there and that sent a fresh bolt of panic within him. Where was it? Did he lose it in the avalanche? On the way here? While fighting in Haven? No, that couldn’t be. He’d leapt and rolled and all sorts of things and not once did the stone fall. Did they take it from him?

His searching gaze turned frantic.

They locked onto Bull, the Chargers huddled behind him while he watched the scene playing out before him, contemplative. Cole hovered near the medical tent but his gaze fell on Lavellan, zeroing in on his distress. Sera looked uncertain from where she had propped herself up on a barrel.

And Solas was by the edge of the camp, the distance between them too wide and Lavellan wanted to reach out, to cry for help, but also revile him. Spit, “Look at what you’ve done to me,” in vindictive despair. If he could even muster such strong emotions right now.

Their gazes met. Lavellan was bare, unmoored without his weapons, without his stone, without his fury and anger. Lost, bereft.

The Well of Sorrows mimicked the melody. A pale imitation because it couldn't incorporate complex tones into its whispers. It worsened everything. He wanted to leave. He should have died in the snow.

He should have died with Solas.

The song ended and Solas was already making his way towards them, but their gaze broke when Mother Giselle spoke to Lavellan. The crowd chattered, their hope renewed. His breath lifted when those who were kneeling stood and left him be.

“You are not alone,” she said. “Just as you are our pillar, so too are we yours. Even Andraste had her trusted circle.”

Andraste had Maferath.

Solas passed him and murmured, “A word?”

Lavellan had Solas.

What was the lesson? Your lovers will betray you if you were some kind of holy figure?

He followed, glad to be gone from the camp where they viewed him only as prophet, but he wasn't sure whether being alone with Solas was a better or worse situation.

Solas led him to a cliff ledge overlooking the mountains beyond where Lavellan had likely trekked through. He held up a hand and lit a Veilfire. Effortless. Lavellan eyed the green flames. It seemed he was regaining his strength, so perhaps Lavellan's theory about the wolves wasn’t far-fetched.

“It has been ages beyond counting since the humans raised one of our people so high.” Lavellan frowned. _Our_? Solas turned and regarded Lavellan. “Most would preen. Perhaps become arrogant. Yet you look so miserable.”

Lavellan hugged himself, unable to meet the intensity of Solas’ gaze so he looked down at the snow. And noticed Solas was still barefoot.

“Um, Solas?”

“Yes?”

He pointed at his feet. Most of it was wrapped but his toes were _out_ and here Lavellan was making icicles. “Are you not cold?”

Solas looked down at them as if he had forgotten. “Oh. Yes, it is no cause for concern. It does not hurt.”

Lavellan never knew what to do with this man sometimes.

“You seemed uncomfortable when the humans knelt before you,” said Solas. “I had assumed you would have felt vindicated.”

Lavellan smiled grimly. “Do you think that poorly of me?”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back, mouth thinning into a displeased line. He turned his head away.

“No,” he murmured, and it almost sounded shamed. “Not you. I did not mean… It was not you I thought poorly of, rather the general behaviour I have observed. I apologise.”

Lavellan pursed his lips and looked down. “It’s fine. I just… don’t understand how anybody could enjoy worship. It’s so heavy. Isolating.” He trembled; hadn’t realised.

“Then you are a rare spirit,” said Solas and shepherded Lavellan closer to the Veilfire. “Come. You are cold.” He waved his hand and changed it to ordinary fire so that it held warmth. It was a nice gesture but Lavellan suspected the chill in him was not just physical. Solas peered at him. “You were on the brink of death when we found you and you rejected the healing magic the mages used. Even Senior Enchanter Vivienne and Grand Enchanter Fiona’s magic.”

That was new. Had that been a problem before?

“I was hardly conscious to accept or reject anything.”

“You were rejecting it on a more instinctive level.” Solas’ eyes glinted in the firelight, swimming with curiosity. “Exhausted of options, they fetched me. I arrived to find you thrashing and screaming in elven. It was only when I spoke back to you in elven that you calmed and accepted my magic.”

Oh Creators. “What was I saying?”

“You were crying to be freed. That they cannot chain you. I assumed you must have been semiconscious and projecting past memories into your present. You do not recall?”

Lavellan shook his head. “I don’t know why I’d be crying those either.”

“Were you dreaming?”

_A lake, a wolf, tar and blood and darkness and void and sunlight, red eyes and blue and―_

Lavellan rubbed his eyes. “Yes. But it wasn’t exactly something that would warrant my screaming.” He groaned. “Everyone must have heard.”

“Yet it only feeds into the legends.”

“The Herald of Andraste thrashes like a cornered animal in his sleep,” he muttered dryly. “Oh yes. They’ll surely sing praises of _that_.”

“The Herald of Andraste battles nightmares like any common person and yet awakes victorious. You are a symbol of overcoming an adversary. They wish to see an imperfect perfection. They wish to see themselves reflected, and yet they want for one whose name they may invoke in their struggles to impart them strength. You are that. Their faith is hard won, lethallin.” The term of familiarity and endearment startled Lavellan. Solas wasn’t one to throw out those terms easily. Da’len, yes, fair enough, he was hundreds ― likely thousands ― of years old. Lethallin? Not so much. Solas had used it for him in his past life too.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that Solas liked him enough again.

“I’m sure you didn’t drag me here to talk about how I’m walking a precarious line with their faith,” he said. “Was there something you wanted to discuss?”

Solas frowned. “I… Yes. When you met this Elder One, what manner of power did he wield?”

“He carried an orb,” said Lavellan, saw no use dancing around it. “It was connected to the mark and he used it to try and take the mark from me. If it was a connection, I saw no reason why he should be the only one pulling. That surprised him. I don’t think he expected for me to have that level of control over the mark.”

Solas’ frown deepened. “As I feared,” he said.

“You know about it.”

“Yes. It is ours. Corypheus used it to open the Breach and unlocking it must have caused the explosion at the Conclave. We must know how he survived and prepare for when those who have placed their faith in you find out that the orb is of our people.”

 _Our_ people?

“How do you know about it?”

“Such things were foci. They channelled power from our gods. Some dedicated to specific members of our pantheon.” _Our?_ When he was so adamant on saying _my_ people? “All that remains are references in ruins and faint memories in the Fade. Echoes of a dead empire.”

Here he was again with such well-crafted words. The reliance on the other’s supposition to fill in the blanks because he knew that people were quick to jump to assumptions and conclusions when something was left open for their interpretation. Technically, he wasn’t lying outright. It was clever.

Lavellan hated it.

“However Corypheus came to it, the orb _is_ elven. With it, he threatens the heart of human faith.”

“Ah, so here we have another case of another culture taking something from the elves, declaring it as theirs now and patting themselves on the back for a job well done.”

Solas’ lips twitched. “That does seem to be their hobby, yes. They fear the other, and our people are the other.”

Our people again. Lavellan threw his head back and barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh so it’s _our_ people now, is it? Dropped the adamance with saying _my_ people? What is this? Do you pity me? Or did I do something that made you change your views of me which let me in on your secret society of elves?”

He stared at Lavellan, silent in the wake of his outburst.

“There is hardly a secret society,” Solas finally said and Lavellan’s laugh bordered on manic because wasn’t that the fucking truth? It was him, Flemeth, a bunch of Sentinel Elves, and other ancient elves tucked away somewhere in uthenera.

Lavellan’s trembling legs couldn’t hold him up anymore and they collapsed, sent up snow when he fell on his ass, and he was still laughing. His laughs somehow transitioned into unhinged sobs.

“Are you kidding me?” he spat at the onset of tears and rubbed them away but they refused to cease. His shoulders heaved. His breaths hiccupped. Why did he have to keep crying in front of Solas? This was ridiculous and humiliating. “I’m sorry,” he blubbered. “I― Fuck!”

Solas knelt beside him and eased Lavellan’s hands away from scrabbling at his face.

“I should have died,” Lavellan whispered, pushed through the thickness of his throat and shuddering of his breaths. Every sob tore into his lungs. The dry mountain air helped little. He grabbed Solas because he was the only solid thing around, fisting his hands so hard into Solas' tunic that a few threads from the seams snapped. “I should have died!”

 _We both should have died_.

Instead, here he was, crying in front of his supposed-to-be-dead lover, doing it all over again. Lavellan couldn’t even see Solas past the blur of tears and he placed his forehead over Solas’ chest instead, shivering.

Solas was warm.

Arms wrapped around him and that started another wave of sobs. Lavellan clutched at the fabric of Solas’ tunic and at some point, his blubbering of, “I should have died,” morphed into, “I’m sorry.”

“Mahanon,” Solas whispered, soft and caring and oh gods he killed him, both ways, why did he feel like home? Why? Solas reached into his pockets and eased one of Lavellan’s hands off his tunic so he could press something smooth and cool into it.

It was the stone. The very same one with the taper at the bottom and the marks on its surface that Lavellan was close to memorising by sight and touch.

And now it was a memory of Haven too.

Lavellan clutched it close to his chest and managed to whimper out a watery thank you.

He wasn’t sure how long he wept in Solas’ arms, how long they stayed out there in the cold with the snow seeping into the material of his trousers, how long Lavellan exhausted tears he hadn’t realised needed to be shed. Didn’t think he could shed. But even as his tears dried and Lavellan stopped heaving, Solas kept his arms firm around him. Lavellan clutched him tighter from the immense rush of gratitude.

It was so silent. The snow absorbed noise, he knew, and he always enjoyed the din of a fresh snowfall. Enjoyed the small moments of silence in Skyhold. That was where they were headed next, weren’t they?

What a bizarre set of circumstances.

“I am relieved you survived,” Solas murmured. “And so are a great number of us. Whether you should or should not have died is nobody’s to answer, but I am glad you did. Even if living comes with a heavy burden.”

Lavellan succumbed to his weakness, for a little while. He was doing an awful lot of succumbing to weaknesses around Solas and he had to be careful. But Solas was a comfort and the steady beat of his heart grounded him. He closed his eyes and relished it while it lasted.

“Thank you,” he rasped, soft and almost lost to the blanket of snow. “I thought I was going to die out there. Alone. This is going to sound bizarre, but I think the wolves guided me.”

“The wolves.”

Look at him trying to act oblivious. “I did say it was bizarre. Whenever I was lost or felt like giving up, they would howl. And I would keep going.”

“Then I am glad for the wolves.”

He opened his swollen and irritated eyes, staring at the flickering flames. 

“It makes me wonder,” said Lavellan.

“About?”

He stayed quiet. It was fun teasing Solas, but he needed to limit how often he did it otherwise it would spark Solas’ suspicion.

“Never mind,” he said and shook his head. “It’s silly.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“I doubt that.”

Lavellan snorted, contemplated telling him, then sighed. He was tired and felt like he was rubbed raw, and he had no filters.

“Alright. I entertained for a moment that it was Fen’Harel guiding me.” To Solas’ credit, he didn’t freeze or tense or give anything away through his body language. “And of course, I heard all the stories in my head of how the Dread Wolf misguides you.”

“Yet you still followed.” Even his tone was unmoved.

“The Emerald Knights had wolves for companions,” he fired back. “Wolves don’t solely belong to the Dread Wolf. I either take my chance and possibly live or listen to stories and possibly die. Or the other way around. Honestly, I was talking to myself at that point so I can’t guarantee how sane I was.”

Solas laughed and the sound echoed in his chest.

“You and your chances,” he mused. It almost sounded fond.

And Lavellan had savoured this moment long enough. He had to lead the conversation to Skyhold.

“I’m not going to continue risking it,” said Lavellan. “Not when there’s the rest of Haven with me stuck in the mountains.” He sighed and moved back. Solas let him and Lavellan ignored how swiftly the cold flooded into the distance between them. “We can hardly deal with Corypheus and take back the foci when we’re lost like this.”

Solas canted his head. “You plan to retrieve the orb?”

“Of course I do.” _I’m cleaning up your mess, as per usual._ “Not like this though. If we can find out where we are, we may be able to take shelter elsewhere in the meantime.”

Solas was silent for a few moments and Lavellan gave him time to think. He was effectively giving his home to them. To the Inquisition. That was a large decision.

And Solas broke the silence.

“There is a place,” he said. “I have dreamed it in Haven. There is a fortress waiting for a force to hold it. A place where the Inquisition can build.” He looked at Lavellan then, gaze intent, eyes like cut crystals. Lavellan couldn’t look away. “ _Grow_. Corypheus has changed the Inquisition by attacking it. Changed _you_. Scout to the north. Be their guide.”

Lavellan knew the weight of this now, so he gave Solas a smile and hoped it conveyed the depth of his gratitude.

“Will you help me find it?” he asked.

Solas returned his smile.

* * *

Lavellan looked back at the Inquisition’s procession behind him, ensured they were alright. They happened upon a wide dirt path during their journey to Skyhold which Lavellan took as a sign that they were on the right track.

He scaled boulders and mountainsides for a better vantage point and shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun.

The Frostbacks stretched ahead, their peaks protruding like the jagged spines of a slumbering beast. The clouds wisped around them, the lavender of the dawning sky painting their coat of snow.

They had been walking for days, likely bordering on a week, but there were minimal complaints. They all believed this to be a trial and that since their Herald of Andraste was guiding them, everything would be alright. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the elves’ long walk to establish a home in the Dales.

A raven flew overheard, perched near him. A wild raven, not the red-crested species they had that Leliana used as messengers. It stared at him. Lavellan smiled.

“Hello,” he greeted. “We’re just passing by.”

The raven cawed at him and took off.

“You planning to talk to the horses next?” asked Bull below him.

Lavellan grinned at him. “Sure, why not? I’m already talking to a bull, aren’t I?”

“I can already talk. Doesn’t count.”

“Well maybe the animals can talk too and you just don’t hear them.”

Bull paused, then threw his hands up in defeat and walked off with good-natured grumbling.

Lavellan charted their next course and followed it, continued north. He soon spotted a familiar slab of bedrock, hurriedly clambered over it, and seeing Skyhold again almost weakened his knees. Which would have been terrible. He’d have pitched face-first into the long drop below.

Solas followed close and stood beside him as they both beheld the fortress.

“Skyhold,” Solas whispered.

Home.

And the place of Solas’ greatest regret.

Skyhold ruled the mountains, with its towers and walls of ancient stones and flags belonging to the previous and long-forgotten holders after Solas.

Lavellan stole a glance at Solas and found the wisps of wistfulness on the edges of his expression, the nostalgia in his eyes. He looked back at Skyhold and couldn’t help but agree. Their memories of it were obviously different, but it was home to them both, nonetheless.

“Thank you, Solas,” he said and again, wished he could convey the weight of it. The acknowledgement of how significant this was for Solas.

Solas’ smile and small nod made Lavellan entertain the notion that maybe he managed to convey it after all.

* * *

The sword of the Inquisition rested heavy in Lavellan’s hand and here he was again, standing in front of them all, about to accept the mantle of Inquisitor.

“The Inquisition will fight for all of us,” he declared. “For those in need, whoever they may be. And right now, we have an enemy who threatens our lives, the lives of our loved ones, the very world. This is not a promise of vengeance, not a promise of sending a greater message. This is a promise of being wherever we are needed, not out of nobility or valour, but because it is right.”

What had he said last time? Who knew, but he doubted it had changed even after six years. Although he may be more articulate and less nervous this time.

“Wherever you lead us,” said Cassandra.

They hailed him then as their Herald and Inquisitor and Lavellan raised the sword, gaze determined.

He had broken, and he would no doubt keep breaking, but he would return stronger.

Without fail.

* * *

Skyhold’s Great Hall lay in shambles. A solitary throne overlooked the wreckage of fallen chandeliers and piles of split wood ― an abandoned seat, the sovereign of ruins. Did Solas sit there, once? Or was that a new throne introduced by those who had occupied Skyhold after his slumber?

If Lavellan closed his eyes, he could picture the banners, the rich red and black carpet spread on the floor which ran and ended at the steps leading to the throne. Could faintly hear the chatter of visiting dignitaries, the crackle of the brazier flames. Could see the light fracturing into colours as it passed the stained glass of the windows.

The Veil was ancient here. It would make sense. This was where it was created after all.

Skyhold. _Tarasyl’an Te’las_. The place where the sky was held back.

The Dread Wolf’s home.

The ancient magic saturating the stones and the air vibrated over his skin.

“So this is where it begins,” said Cullen.

Leliana brushed her hand over a fallen scaffolding. “It began in the courtyard. This is where we turn that promise into action.”

“But what would we do? We know nothing about this Corypheus except that he wanted your mark,” said Josephine and she rubbed her eyes. “Honestly, if it hadn’t come from you, I would not have believed it.”

“He’s lost his way into the Fade,” said Lavellan, “so he’s going to keep looking. He’ll do whatever it takes to reach the Black City and ascend to divinity. Even if it means this world burns. All for the sake of an empire that no longer exists.” Was he talking about Solas or Corypheus?

Both.

“There’s also the matter about his dragon,” said Cullen. “Archdemon or no, it gives his forces an advantage we can’t ignore.”

“For now, we need to deal with this dark future the Inquisitor saw in Redcliffe,” said Leliana, testing how his title felt. Hearing it again was like the final piece of the puzzle falling in place. Even after the Inquisition disbanded, the others as well as Solas’ forces still referred to him as Inquisitor out of habit. Besides, it was much better than Herald.

Lavellan watched the play of light from the stained windows. “We need to get ourselves back up first. Re-establish ourselves and show the world we’re still here even after Corypheus attacked and that we’re stronger than ever for it.”

Josephine smiled. “And that we are no longer leaderless.”

“Which is more than the Chantry could say,” Cullen muttered.

“How do you propose we move forward?” Leliana asked Lavellan.

He chewed on his lip. “First, get our operations up and running again. Spread word that we’re alive. When we’ve done that, figure out what upcoming events would give Corypheus a chance to assassinate the Empress. As for the demon army…”

Someone cleared their throat behind them.

They turned. Varric waved at them, right on time.

“I know someone who could help with that,” he said. “Everyone acting all inspirational jogged my memory so I sent a message to an old friend.”

The advisors shared a look and Lavellan approached Varric.

“She’s crossed paths with Corypheus before,” explained Varric. “She can help.”

Lavellan remembered the surly scowl Hawke presented to everyone, softened only by her family and friends even as she carried the darkness of someone who had lost so much. They were kindred spirits on that front. She was a tough woman. 

“Introduce us then,” said Lavellan with a small smile. “When will she get here?”

“This place is a little tucked away but… give her two days.”

Leliana gave Varric a long, hard look. “Cassandra is going to kill you,” she said.

Varric grimaced. “Yeah, uh, don’t tell her. Let me enjoy my final two days as a free and very much alive dwarf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan is _not_ having a good time ouch.
> 
> Anyway we’re finally in Skyhold!! After like, 70k something words *weeps*.
> 
> Somewhat unrelated but anytime Hozier's song 'In the Woods Somewhere' pops up in my playlist, my soul ascends just a little bit . I love that man. I love that song. UGH atmospheric. Some of the upcoming chapters have been written with that song on repeat because it just fit the goddamn mood. UGH.


	19. A garden of tears

_rest where the roses wilt―_

* * *

Lavellan roamed Skyhold ― what areas he could anyway ― and ran his hands over the stone, let the magic imbued within wrap around him like a familiar and comforting blanket. Skyhold was never truly his, but for a time, he had carved a home into it.

Skyhold had two baileys: one situated in front of the Great Hall, and another behind it, accessible via the walls behind the stables or behind the armoury. The front bailey was divided into the lower and upper courtyards which held most of the communal amenities like the tavern and stables. The rear bailey held buildings reserved for residence and housekeeping. Skyhold was almost a village on its own.

For now, the rear bailey was inaccessible. Instead, makeshift tents littered Skyhold’s front bailey while everyone searched the castle for any areas fit for temporary occupation.

Though Skyhold had already been heavily modified from its original state, there were still strong remnants of the Elvhen. The gardens, for one. The openness of the rotunda also screamed Elvhen because of its priority on aesthetic over practicality (seriously, look at all that wasted space. Also, the rookery above a library which was meant to be quiet? Really?). The arches in the residential areas were also distinctly Elvhen.

Either way, magic dwelled within the walls, Elvhen stones or otherwise. 

Sera was in one of the tents, pacing back and forth and muttering to herself, her distress more obvious than Corypheus’ pet dragon and yet nobody could go and distract or comfort her. Too busy or hesitant to approach.

So he went instead. Her expression eased the slightest when she saw him.

“Hey Inquisitor,” she said. “Remember when we had that talk about stickin’ arrows in the baddies?” She bared her teeth. “That’s not a frigging archdemon, is it?” She looked down and muttered, “Andraste, what’d I step in?”

“It was hardly an archdemon. No self-respecting archdemon would bow to that walking bag of red lyrium wrapped in wrinkled scrotum skin.”

Sera snorted and giggled before forcing a frown back on. “Wait, no! Don’t make me laugh, you daft tit. I’m trying to yell at you.”

“What’d I do?” he asked, voice rising half a pitch in bewilderment.

“You’re the closest one I can yell at,” she fired back, voice rising another half pitch from his, before she shook her head. “I just got all this Chantry stuff in my head, right? He says he’s cracked the Black City but that’s a hazy dream. If not? Seat of the Maker? Real thing. A seat needs a butt so Maker? Real thing. Fairy stories about the start and end of the world? Real things.”

Sera gazed at the sky, looking as if the sheer expanse of it overwhelmed her. She was a reminder that not everybody walked certain in their faith. That she was part of the uncertain majority. Solas was right, Corypheus threatened the heart of human faith. Whether they were wrong about their respective gods or not was irrelevant because when people hit rock bottom, often it was their faith which kept them going. Threatening their faith threatened their hope. Threatening their hope threatened their strength. He mustn’t forget the people he wanted to fight for.

“All I want is for things to stop being such a bung. Simple system, simple problems. Helps me, helps people, helps you. In that order. For now.”

 _Fear breeds desire for simplicity_ , Solas had said.

And what was wrong with that? Well, okay, a few things but some personally preferred something they could follow with, something that made sense.

“Thanks Sera,” he said.

She squinted at him in suspicion. “Get off?”

“No, I’m serious. I want to fight for those who need me, but it’s hard for me to keep my perspective when I’m at the top. I can try but I know my view is skewed. Everything is big picture and I forget the little things, the little people. I don’t want to do that. So thanks, for reminding me.” Lavellan rubbed the back of his head. “I know things are batty and shit makes no sense, but I hope you stay.” 

Sera regarded him as if she wasn’t sure what to make of him.

But she eventually smiled. “So what you’re sayin’ is you want me to stick around so I can serve you your arse if your head gets big?”

Lavellan considered this, then shrugged. “Pretty much.”

She snickered. “Yeah alright. Think I can do that.”

That marked the end of their conversation and they parted with a farewell, pleased when he saw that she had significantly relaxed.

* * *

He visited parts of Skyhold, checking up on everyone. Their reverent gazes followed him as he passed, dripping like honey on his skin.

Cole lingered near the impromptu medical tents, watching over the injured. He didn’t turn his head even as Lavellan stood beside him.

They had a large debate in Haven about Cole's situation and Lavellan had convinced them to let Cole stay. If anything, because Cole knew. For once, Lavellan didn’t feel burdened from seeing a dead or younger face and being unable to say anything. Unable to hug them as he would. Unable to interact with them as he would.

Was it selfish of him?

“No, it’s not,” said Cole. “I like helping. I help.”

Lavellan softened. “You do.”

“I hurt you before. I want to help.”

“That wasn’t you Cole. That was Compassion. Whatever the reason was, I can’t judge him for it.”

“You should,” Cole said, soft, almost lost to Skyhold’s thin air. “But you won’t.”

“Should but won’t seems to be a running theme with me.” Should have turned Bull away but wouldn’t. Should have turned Blackwall away but wouldn’t. Should kill Solas (again) but wouldn’t.

“You care so much,” said Cole. “Heart spilling with softness and sorrow but you wish it wouldn’t. Why?”

“It’s exhausting. And foolish.”

“But you keep going?”

Even Lavellan didn’t understand it. “Because I care so much. It comes full circle.”

And Cole merely nodded in understanding. 

“Thank you for the cave, by the way,” Lavellan said. “For the furs and the directions and the coat.”

“Did they help?”

“Yes. Immensely.”

“Good. I’m glad. You’re here now, and that helps everyone too. Solas was sad, desperate, pushed himself to limits. Nothing sang the same and he worked with droplets where there used to be a river, but he had to _try_.” Lavellan’s heart stopped momentarily and when the beats resumed, they were stuttering and echoing in the chamber of his chest. “You were brilliant, gleaming, and he made it hurt. It was his hurt which gave you yours and he had to try. He searched and healed and gave his old home.”

“Cole,” said Lavellan, voice dry, “I don’t think you should announce Solas’ thoughts out loud to me.”

“But he wants you to hear them. And you want to know.”

He wanted Lavellan to hear them?

“They called him Liar but it cages him. He wants to tell the truth when he can, a breath in a sea of lies.”

“Solas _is_ a pretty terrible liar,” Lavellan mused and shook his head. “Out of the two of us, I think I lie the most though.”

And Cole gave him a calm, intense stare.

“You change faces.”

Lavellan blinked.

“And you change things with your change. You leave yourself, even here. The stones thrum, thrilled and thick while they wait and wonder what memories you’ll give them. Maybe you’ll shake them when you roar.” Cole looked up, scanned the walls, the structures. “They remember everything.”

“Erm,” he said in all his glorious eloquence. And Cole was gone with a blink, somehow beside one of the injured, raising a glass of water to their lips. Lavellan took that to mean the end of their conversation and walked away, mystified as he tended to be after speaking to Cole.

* * *

They had their first War Council meeting and Lavellan ran his hand over the great slab of tree trunk that been turned into the large War Table.

“This place is amazing,” breathed Cullen as he looked out the window. “Its position makes it pretty much impenetrable. How has a place like this remained lost for so long?”

“Solas claims that the magic imbued into the site likely acted as a protective measure,” said Leliana. “I asked him why it would let itself be found by us.”

“What did he say?” asked Josephine.

“That he cannot claim to know how a place of old and unknown magic picks and chooses,” she snorted.

“That does sound like an answer he’d give,” agreed Lavellan.

It had been a day since they'd found Skyhold and construction was already well under way. Lavellan had requested for them to focus on clearing the rear bailey so they could house as many people as possible. He also sent ravens to Speaker Anaise and her cult in the Hinterlands to spread word that the Inquisition was well and alive.

“What is on the agenda today?” Josephine asked.

The three looked to him and he took a small breath. Right. Inquisitor now.

“We need to get stronger,” he said. “Me too. We need an extra edge.”

“Then this may be of interest to you,” said Josephine. “An Arcanist has asked if she could lend her services to the Inquisition.”

Lavellan pursed his lips to hide his smile. Dagna. Perfect.

“I am unfamiliar with the term,” said Cullen. “Arcanist?”

“An expert on all things magical,” explained Josephine. “I heard she’s humbled First Enchanters in Andrastian _and_ Imperial circles. If the Venatori and Corypheus have claimed many experts, I see no reason why we cannot claim our own.”

“She would be invaluable,” Lavellan agreed. “Let’s accept her help then.”

“As for giving you an edge…” Josephine trailed off in thought. “You are our leader. You require the best so that our soldiers may see someone of both inspiration and aspiration.”

“It would give them peace of mind knowing their Inquisitor is capable,” he said. “It would give me peace of mind too.”

“Then leave it to me,” Leliana said. “I will ensure the best training. But first, I need to know how you fight and what manner of edge you seek.”

He already had something in mind, dearly missing his flasks and elixirs, but nodded anyway. 

“We’ll spar after the meeting,” she said and her eyes glimmered. “Oh don’t make such a face. I’ll go hard on you.”

“Did you mean you’ll go easy on me?”

“No.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

They continued their discussion and Lavellan felt more and more comfortable as he returned to his old role, the mantle of leadership familiar on his back. The first time he was made Inquisitor in his past life, he’d been uncertain. How could he lead something of this calibre? But he learned, he supposed.

Before the meeting ended, Lavellan asked, “Could I also get a list of those we lost at Haven? I… I want to personally write the condolence letters.” His hand clenched on the War Table. It was the least he could do. He did all he could to minimise losses, but it was impossible to leave Haven without any casualties.

Leliana and Cullen shared a heavy look before Cullen nodded.

“Of course. I’d like to help write them too.”

“Thank you.”

He called the meeting to a close then and Leliana bid him to gear up and meet her at the upper courtyard in front of the Great Hall’s stairs for their spar.

Anyway, he got his ass kicked. That wasn’t important.

* * *

Lavellan managed a few hours of sleep before the nightmares woke him. He sobbed in the cold quiet, phantom pains dancing along his left arm as he clutched it close to his chest, the mark flickering with light. His veins didn’t glow green, his skin wasn’t blackening, but it damn well felt like it.

Once his sobbing settled, he forced himself out of the bedroll he had set up in the watchtower furthest from everyone ― so he wouldn’t wake anybody up if he screamed in his sleep. He wasn’t sure if he did scream. Better not find out by startling everyone awake.

Skyhold’s dry chill slapped some awareness back into him and he focused on the chill over his left arm. Made sure it was there. It was real. He stood and forewent the shoes so he could feel the cold stones beneath his feet. To the point of just hurting. Unfortunately, Skyhold wasn’t like Haven where he could cross the river and hunt on the frozen fields, so he had taken to walking. In his past life, Varric had jokingly referred to him as the ghost of Skyhold. Skulked around in the dark, watched over his wards. And he wasn't wrong.

Lavellan roamed Skyhold’s battlements with a watchful eye over those taking shelter in their tents in the encampments outside Skyhold. The bailey and available buildings could only fit so many. It must be freezing out there, but the soldiers had happily volunteered to stay there so that the injured, children, and the elderly could sleep in relative comfort.

The moon hung high in the sky, his breaths fogging.

It was a complete surprise when he stumbled into Cullen. Or maybe not.

Cullen startled at the movement but he relaxed once he recognised Lavellan. He gave him a once over, questioning gaze lingering over his bare feet, but he returned to looking out into the distance without a word. Lavellan stood beside him.

“Why are you awake?” Lavellan murmured.

“Same reason as you, I’d wager.”

“Can’t hunt here,” said Lavellan.

“No,” he chuckled. “Can I ask about the shoes? Lack thereof, rather.”

“I wanted to feel.”

Cullen nodded, understanding. Lavellan observed him. He was pale, clammy, and it wasn’t because of the lighting. His hands were tucked into his pockets and Lavellan was sure they were shaking.

“You were in Kirkwall, weren’t you?” Lavellan asked.

Cullen cast his eyes down. “I… Yes. And the Kinloch Circle during the Blight.”

Lavellan nodded, knew the story. “Want to talk about it?”

He let the silence linger as an invitation, free to be filled or left alone.

“Not… tonight,” Cullen finally answered and Lavellan nodded. “Do you want to talk about yours?”

Lavellan smiled. “Not tonight,” he echoed.

And so they fell back into work talk because that was safer and it kept their thoughts away from the darkness lingering in their minds. They talked of the state of constructions, the state of the soldiers, plans to solidify defence and offence. What worked and what didn’t at Haven.

“It was brought to my attention that the Templars want ex-Knight-Captain Denam dealt with,” said Cullen. “The mages are also curious about what will happen to this Magister Alexius.”

He chewed on his lip. Right. The responsibility would soon fall to him. Weighing lives and judging their actions once more.

“Were you able to get them to Skyhold alright?” Lavellan asked.

“The Magister came quietly. The Knight-Captain had to be knocked out several times so he would cooperate.”

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Lavellan dryly.

“They’re deferring to your judgement,” said Cullen. “If you do end up judging Knight-Captain Denam, I want to be there. I knew some of the knights at Therinfal, and I want to oversee his sentencing.”

Lavellan nodded. “Of course. Still, that’s already quite the responsibility. I’ve barely been Inquisitor for a day.”

“You’ve earned their trust. May I also say, the match between you and the spymaster earlier was well-received by the soldiers. It bolstered morale.”

“And so Leliana turns out right again.” Lavellan grinned. “This is getting dangerous. She’s getting increasingly smug.”

“Don’t get me started,” Cullen grumbled.

Their discussion tentatively deviated from work talk, and they shared stories under the stars until the light of dawn shimmered over the snow coating the Frostbacks and stirred the early risers of Skyhold.

* * *

Lavellan regarded the stone throne, the ornate braided design on its back faded and worn. They had cleaned it up as best as they could and placed a covering of furs on the seat to make it more forgiving to sit on.

“I assume you’ve heard of the Templars and mages deferring to you for judgement on Magister Alexius and Knight-Captain Denam,” said Josephine as she walked up to him.

“I did.”

They stared at the throne. In his past life, his throne had been carved as if borne of flames. A call to Andraste’s death by fire. Would they do the same thing again?

“It will be one of your responsibilities now,” she said. “You have also become a beacon of law. The Inquisition’s sovereignty is derived from the allies who validate it. You are both empowered and bound.”

And the mantle of Inquisitor came with the weight. “Let’s begin.”

Josephine nodded. “Who first?”

“Bring Denam in. Fetch Commander Cullen, too. He’ll want to be here.”

Lavellan sat. Here he was again, holding lives in his hands, dictating the future of those who would kneel before him. Word must have gotten out about his impending judgement because the Great Hall filled with people, waiting, watching their Inquisitor. Madame Vivienne watched from her upper lounge balcony, while Solas stepped out from his rotunda. They locked eyes briefly. Lavellan had to look away.

What did he see when Lavellan sat where Solas once did?

Commander Cullen soon arrived with Knight-Captain Denam being escorted in chains behind him, Magister Alexius not far behind.

Lavellan clutched the arm of the throne but kept his face impassive. He sat through Denam’s judgement (where he and Cullen sufficiently fumed at one another) before he gave the Templars full sanction to determine Denam’s punishment themselves. The Templars in the Hall looked at each other and nodded, watched Denam being dragged away with bitterness in their gazes.

Lavellan glanced at Cullen in a silent question. _Are you alright?_ he meant to convey. Cullen must have gotten it because he gave a minute nod and waved him off.

Josephine took over as they dragged Alexius in. Dorian was in the crowd, tucked away in a corner.

Lavellan already knew what work he wanted Alexius to undertake and assigned him to serve the Inquisition as one of its magical researchers. Later, they were going to have a good, _long_ chat about time magic.

“No execution?” Alexius sighed. “Very well.”

“Ready a place for him to stay but leave him in the cells in the meantime.”

The guards saluted and led Alexius away. Dorian and Alexius spotted each other but neither said anything. Lavellan leaned back and closed his eyes, collected himself for a moment, before he stood. Josephine and Cullen walked up to him and Cullen patted his shoulder.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” said Cullen.

“It was well-handled,” Josephine commended. “I know the burden of a life is not an easy one to bear, but you bore it with poise. That is to be applauded.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Commander, could you also ask the Templars if they can extract information from Knight-Captain Denam? Anything at all regarding Corypheus and the Red Templars.”

“Of course. I’ll speak to Ser Barris about it.”

They left him be and the spectators in the Hall returned to their business. Solas was gone. Dorian was making his way over though so Lavellan met him halfway with a small nod.

“Are you alright?” he asked Dorian.

“Yes.” He hesitated, then sighed. “No. Felix… died this morning.”

Lavellan’s breath stilled. Felix? Was dead? Already? But last he saw him, he was still well enough. He let out a small breath. Shit.

“He was on borrowed time anyhow,” said Dorian, eyes downcast.

“Does Alexius know?”

“He does.”

That was why he was so ready for whatever fate Lavellan would give him.

“Thank you for being merciful towards Alexius,” said Dorian. “Research has always made him happiest. It… It would give him something to do. No doubt he’ll feel a little lost.”

“What about you? I know Felix meant a lot to you.”

“I’ve come to terms with it a long time ago.”

“Still feels like shit.”

Dorian looked away, gaze fixed on something in a hazy distance.

“Give me something to do, I suppose.”

“Okay,” Lavellan said. “Why don’t you come with me during my next outing?” Hawke would arrive today, and Lavellan knew she’d bring news about Stroud and the Grey Wardens. They would set off for Crestwood soon.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“I suspect soon.”

Dorian tried for a smile. “Whatever the Inquisitor commands. Congratulations by the way. Look at me, so caught up in my own strife that I’ve forgotten to congratulate you."

"Dorian, you just lost a good friend. I'm not going to hold that against you."

"It's a small glimmer of happiness, at the very least," said Dorian. "Ergo, congratulations. I can’t think of anyone more suited for the job.”

“Are you calling me bossy?”

“Far be it for me to say that.”

Lavellan would hug him, but they weren’t close in this life yet, so he gave Dorian what he hoped was a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry for your loss Dorian. Felix was a great man, and no doubt a great friend. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you. Very considerate of you. Careful though, you may just make me swoon.” Dorian chuckled.

“I’ll catch you,” Lavellan teased.

“Ha! I would’ve believed you if I didn’t see the way you look at our resident hedge mage.”

“Never mind. I’m letting you crash.” He turned and walked away and Dorian’s soft laughter followed him out the Hall.

The way he looked at Solas? How did he look at Solas? Did he have a way of looking at Solas, and did everyone see it? Did Solas? Maybe they just confused his murderous look for something else? Lavellan rubbed his face. Dorian was probably teasing.

He was so preoccupied with how he supposedly looked at Solas and the news of Felix’s death and the recent judgements that he didn’t see Varric until they crashed into each other.

“Whoa there, Glowy,” said Varric and steadied him.

Lavellan staggered back and shook his head. “Creators, I’m sorry Varric. I was thinking.”

“Yeah I saw that. Kind of felt it when you crashed into me too.” He rubbed the back of his head. “So, uh, I don’t want to dump this on you suddenly because it seemed like a bad time and everything, but the friend I told you about? The one who would know about Corypheus?”

“Have they arrived?” Lavellan asked.

Varric nodded. “Yeah.” He looked around, as if checking for any eavesdroppers. Or a certain Seeker. “It’s probably safer to meet on the battlements.”

They walked to a less occupied area of the battlements where Hawke awaited, as gruff as Lavellan remembered. She turned at his arrival, exhausted and grim-faced, the default look of somebody burdened with the responsibility of others’ lives. Show him a supposed ‘hero’ who wasn’t exhausted and he’d eat his own shoe.

They shared a moment of unspoken solidarity because both understood that this entire hero gig thrusted upon them took pieces of themselves that they weren't ready to give and they could never retrieve it again.

“You look like shit,” was her greeting as they shook hands.

Varric choked on his ale.

“Thanks. You too.” He gestured at her eye bags. “I think I got you beat there.”

“You do,” she said. “Bet you can’t do this.” She arched her back the slightest and it resulted in the consecutive popping of joints. Hawke grimaced.

Lavellan made a face. “No, mine just aches for a solid few months.”

“Ouch,” she said without any real sympathy and Lavellan huffed out a tired laugh. After bellyaching for a few more minutes, they moved on to the issue with the Wardens and Corypheus.

“Are you two alright to head out to Crestwood first?” he asked after. “I have a few things left to take care of here then I’ll follow. Get a head start on finding this Warden friend of yours.”

Hawke nodded. “Alright,” she said and eyed Varric. “If I hear a single complaint from you about anything inane, I’m dumping you in a river and leaving you there.”

Varric raised a hand in surrender. “Hey! I don’t complain that much.”

Hawke shot Lavellan a questioning look and he happily obliged.

“So far, he’s complained about slopes, walking too much, rain, humidity, the great outdoors, taller than usual walls, complicated Orlesian pastry, bumpy roads, caves, bears, and brontos,” Lavellan listed and Varric gave him the most betrayed expression. It would have given Lavellan’s face when he found out about Solas’ plans a run for its money.

“Has he complained about the colour green yet?” she asked.

“I can’t believe this," said Varric. "Listen, I’m just a dwarf who knows what he wants.”

“You’re a damn fussy dwarf is what you are.”

“Picky,” added Lavellan.

“The Inquisitor was a cruel elf,” Varric said. “That’s how I’m describing you, hear me?”

“A cruel and accurate elf,” Lavellan amended.

Hawke snorted at Varric. “I can see why you stuck around. He’s got your sense of humour.”

Lavellan feigned offence. “Mine's more refined.”

“You’re not holding back today, are you?” Varric grumbled.

He laughed. “I mean it with love.”

“Your love hurts, Inquisitor,” said Varric.

“So dramatic.” He waved him off. “Alright, I’ll leave you two be so you can go and catch up. We’ll meet at Crestwood.”

They shared their farewells and Lavellan threw them a look over his shoulders once he was far enough, and his look turned fond at the happiness Varric radiated. Hawke wouldn’t admit it, but Lavellan suspected she shared the sentiment.

He set off to search for the companions he would take to Crestwood.

But first…

He descended into the cells. Lavellan pursed his lips when he saw the section of the cells absolutely decimated by an unknown force, but he was willing to wager it was from the creation of the Veil. For now, Alexius was in an intact cell.

Lavellan neared him and he looked up.

“Inquisitor,” Alexius greeted. “Come to gloat?”

He stopped before Alexius’ cell and softened his expression.

“I heard about Felix,” he said and dipped his head. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Is that it?” He grunted. “You’ve come here to offer condolences for my loss? No need to put up a farce of sympathy, I’ll do your bidding. It’s the only thing I have left, it seems.”

“It’s not a farce. I didn’t know Felix for long but I owe my life and this future to him. He was a good man.”

His disgruntled façade fell slightly as he tipped his head back against the wall, his grief peering through.

“Better than me,” Alexius murmured.

Lavellan chewed on his lip as he debated over his next words.

“Your spell worked,” he said, carefully watching Alexius’ expression. “It did send us into the future.”

Alexius’ face changed, lit up his eyes, but it was more desperation than excitement.

“It did?” he asked and leapt to his feet, clutching the bars. The guard on duty reached for their sword. Lavellan held a hand to still them. “Tell me, Inquisitor, what did you see? Did Felix― Was Felix alive? Did I save him?”

And maybe Lavellan shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. This was a terrible idea. This was just kicking Alexius while he was down.

He glowered at Lavellan’s hesitance. “Oh spit it out!”

“His body was alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Alexius frowned. “I― I don’t understand.”

Lavellan let out a heavy breath. “When I saw him, he barely moved, never spoke. There was no Felix left in him, just… a body forced to remain.”

Alexius bowed his head and trembled. “The Elder One promised he would live.”

“I wouldn’t even count the Elder One as alive, Alexius. A creature like him wouldn’t know what it truly meant to live.”

His grip on the bars tightened and he croaked, “Get out.”

Lavellan hesitated, lingered, wished he could find something better to say but he knew anything that came from him would just make Alexius feel worse.

“Someone will come fetch you later,” he said instead. “For now, I want the research you’ve done into time magic. I’ll have one of my mages working with you so I know you’re not omitting or altering anything.”

When Alexius said nothing, Lavellan turned and left him be to grieve and busied himself with thinking about who he planned to bring to Crestwood rather than dwelling on that interaction and whether he handled it properly. A sour taste in his mouth told him no, he didn’t. He returned to the battlements and watched the frozen river stretching ahead to distract himself.

Dorian he’d definitely bring. Bull…? Maybe Sera? Blackwall? Crestwood had bandits, demons, and undead. He’d leave Cole for now. The residents of Skyhold would need their guardian spirit around for a while, at least until everyone settled enough.

Sera and Bull were easy enough to find and he caught Blackwall roaming the battlements so there was an easy find too. Lavellan visited the library to find Dorian and found him already claiming one of the window alcoves for himself, scattering it with pillows and shoving a tasteful table in the corner. A bottle of wine rested on it. Lavellan squinted at the bottle.

“Is that from Josephine’s Antivan collection?” he asked.

Dorian turned up his nose. “It was gathering _dust_ in the cellar. I couldn’t possibly leave such a fine specimen alone.”

“Try not to get hungover,” said Lavellan. “We’re heading out tomorrow.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“Crestwood.” Lavellan paused, then said, “Bring extra changes of clothes.”

Dorian sighed. “I already look forward to it.”

Lavellan waved him goodbye and went to look for Solas to let him know he would be working with Alexius. It was strange though. Solas had accompanied him for most of their excursions. It would be fine, he had survived without Solas just fine for two years and then some.

He wasn’t in the rotunda. Lavellan asked around but Solas had chosen this time to excel at being unassuming and nobody could point Lavellan to his whereabouts. Couldn’t even remember seeing him.

“He’s not Cole,” Lavellan muttered as he went on the battlements again and searched for him there. He almost gave up before he spotted him in the garden. Lavellan descended into the garden and approached him.

The garden was still overgrown with weeds and bushes with far too many thorns, the dry, prickly mass encroaching upon the footpath.

What was it like when Solas owned the castle?

Solas stood beneath the dilapidated gazebo, examining the browned and wilted vine wrapped around a column.

“This place was beautiful, once,” he murmured as Lavellan neared.

Lavellan stood beside him under that broken gazebo and beheld the ruins of the garden. It was easy to clear it all away in his mind’s eye, to image the garden he had grown accustomed to. Recalled the chess games with Dorian, Cullen, or Leliana, Morrigan reading Kieran a book about an obscure lore or branch of magic, Lavellan tending to the herb garden they had set up for the healers to use, the soldiers who would sit for a moment of peace, the Chantry sisters who read letters from home, Varric who would tuck himself in a corner to write. The echoes were fresh in his mind. Serene, a pocket of space away from the loud, hassled, chaotic screaming of the world.

Solas gestured at a patch of land overtaken by thorny bushes.

“Asters,” he said. “The ancient elves would often enchant flowers to respond to music. Dictated whether they would furl or unfurl, changed the pattern of colours splashed upon their petals. The asters would ripple in prismatic shades. Hues you wouldn’t believe possible.” He turned and nodded at the scraggly tree. “The leaves would chime like bells whenever the wind played between their spaces. Other days, they sighed like water.”

Lavellan couldn’t help but smile. It seemed the garden held fond memories for them both.

“Can you envision it?” asked Solas, voice soft in his momentary vulnerability. Lavellan had never thought to question it before. Had thought it a part of Solas’ enthusiasm in sharing the memories he encountered in the Fade.

“I can,” he agreed. “A place of refuge. You can spend a few moments here absent of worry, a few seconds for yourself or with another.”

Solas smiled. “Indeed.”

Lavellan’s heart ached for a fleeting instant, longed for the past and the Inquisition of before. The Inquisition that wasn’t here yet. The Inquisition at its prime. He hadn’t realised it was at its prime until later when things went to shit and he disbanded it. Skyhold could no longer be their place of operations. Too close to Solas.

For now, this was fine too. Maybe he could do something better with the garden. He always did wish it had more flowers.

“I apologise,” said Solas and shook his head. “I had dreamt here and the memories of the garden struck me.”

“You know I’m always happy to hear about your stories and memories.”

He smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Inquisitor.” Lavellan made a displeased noise and Solas raised a brow at him. “That _is_ your title.”

“I know it’s my title but we’re alone. You can call me by name.”

“We cannot continue being equal. You are now the leader of the Inquisition.”

“I was your friend first before becoming Inquisitor. I don’t see why this has to change or why you have to suddenly treat me like I’m just a figurehead.”

Solas wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You _are_ a figurehead. Changed situations demand for changed dynamics, Inquisitor.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to pull away like this,” he said and frowned. “I’m still me. Just with more responsibility.”

“And more power. You take to sitting on the throne as if you were born for it.”

And Solas was managing to strike Lavellan’s bad mood again.

“Well I’m glad you saw my nervousness and the way I clutched onto the arm rest for dear life as confidence,” he bit out and crossed his arms. “I thought I may have been obvious.”

“Why are you so averse to being referred to as your title? You are the Herald of Andraste, and now you are the Inquisitor. You cannot change that. It is how the people see you and it is what they expect of you.”

“Is it how you see me?” Lavellan fired back.

“What else would you be?”

Lavellan’s face fell, couldn’t reel it in fast enough to hide it. An uneasy silence hovered.

The doubts returned. Questions of if Solas truly loved him in his past life, if Solas only returned Lavellan’s attraction and flirtations as some part of a game or a way to further his goal. Yes, wrap the Inquisitor’s heart strings around your fingers. Have the ear and heart of one of the most influential figures in history.

 _“I want you to know, what we had was real,”_ _Solas said._

_“You’ll have to forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe.”_

“Right,” Lavellan said, voice thick. He came here for a reason. Solas didn’t think he was more than Inquisitor and Herald? _Fine_. “I came to let you know that I’m heading to Crestwood tomorrow but I want you to stay and work with Magister Alexius, look over his research about time magic. Find out about the magic used at Redcliffe and its implications.”

Solas finally met his eyes, caught off-guard. “You are not taking me with you?”

“Were you not listening?”

He frowned. “I was listening perfectly. I just― I have accompanied you for most of your travels. I…”

Lavellan stared, face cold, dared Solas to question him.

Solas looked away. “Dareth shiral.”

Lavellan lingered, just for a second, before he turned and walked away. Wished deep down that Solas would call out for him to stop, to talk it over with him, to tell Lavellan that he was more than Inquisitor and Herald to him.

Solas said nothing.

He left the garden, kept his pace steady and face impassive as he made his way through the Hall and descended into the Hall’s lower levels. He locked himself in the small, old library filled with cobwebs and dusty tomes. And wept.

This was stupid. Why was he crying so damn much?

He felt worse after the cry but he couldn’t let that stop him. He smoothed himself down, fixed his hair, wiped his tears, and let his eyes settle until he was sure they didn’t look red and swollen, before he walked out.

Inquisitor Lavellan, ready to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an interlude chapter and just settling in. With a seasoning of ouch.
> 
> I extended Skyhold because no way can the in-game one fit that many people + guests (WHERE DO THEY SLEEP?? WHERE DOES THE FOOD COME FROM? WHERE IS IT STORED? THAT KITCHEN IS TINY!). Don't get me wrong though, I still love the in-game one. Basically, pretend there's a whole extra area behind the Great Hall.
> 
> Also, please pardon me for any DA2 related things. I've only played Origins and Inquisition so I'm pretty clueless when it comes to 2 and most of my knowledge comes from watching other playthroughs, reading the wiki, or memes. My grasp of Hawke is likely going to be a tad slippery but I'll do my best.
> 
> (Having to fight the urge to rewrite the first chapters of the story because I have descended into 'overly critical of my writing' time and have lost all objectivity regarding the piece so I've elected to ignore my screaming brain by burying it under cups of coffee and tea and making moodboards. I'll listen to it when it finally learns to _behave_ and convey things in a more constructive manner because 'I DON'T LIKE IT, REDO IT, CHANGE IT, NUH UH IT'S TOO BLERGH' doesn't count as constructive criticism, thank you and goodbye you wet, noodley lump of fat.)


	20. The terror of the dreamless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo I've been getting people saying that they've binge read this fic in a few days or so which is so incredibly touching, but I also got worried (because I know I skip out on sleep or something when I'm binge reading haha).
> 
> So this is a self-care checkpoint reminder to walk around/stretch for a bit, drink water, have some food if it's meal time, or go to sleep if you're able to :) Thank you for your support.
> 
> Without further ado...

_nocturnal and witless―_

* * *

After notifying the rest of his companions where he was going and asking Vivienne to help Josephine with designing the Great Hall, he went looking for Cassandra. The soldiers pointed him towards the armoury where she was last seen with Varric.

Oh. Oh no.

Lavellan hurried into the armoury, the sound of scuffling and chairs screeching echoing in the space. He hurried up the stairs just in time to see Cassandra pull her fist back.

“You conniving little shit!” she accused.

“Hey!” Lavellan yelled and moved between them, caught Cassandra’s wrist just as she threw the punch. She stared at him, incredulous. Varric positioned himself behind a table.

“You’re taking _his_ side?” she asked.

"Look at her, she's lost it!" Varric cried.

“That’s enough,” Lavellan scolded. She wrenched her hand away from his grip and paced, but she didn't breach the one-table difference between her and Varric.

“We needed someone to lead this Inquisition,” said Cassandra.

Varric gestured at Lavellan. “It _has_ a leader. And you’re the one who elected him!”

“And I do not regret this decision, but Leliana and I thought Hawke’s disappearance tied with Warden-Commander Tabris’ disappearance. But _no_. It was just you. You hid her from us. She could have been at the Conclave. She could have saved Most Holy.”

“Then Hawke would be dead too,” Varric spat. Lavellan rubbed his face and sighed.

“What’s done is done,” he said. Lavellan hadn't been able to stop the Conclave explosion, and something told him that without it, the Inquisition would have never been born. Not in this way, at least. “And Varric’s right. If Hawke had been at the Conclave, she’d be dead and where would we be now? She’s one of the only people who knows anything about what we’re facing.”

Cassandra scowled at Lavellan. “But even after the Conclave when we needed Hawke, Varric kept her secret.”

“She’s with us now!” said Varric. “We’re on the same side.”

“We all know whose side you’re on, Varric,” she spat. “It will always be yours. You’re a selfish, lying snake.”

Varric disbelieving laugh was almost hysteric. “Fine! I’m a selfish, lying snake for wanting to keep my friend safe.”

“Cassandra!” Lavellan snapped “Enough. You’re being too harsh.”

“ _Harsh_?”

Lavellan turned to Varric. “And Varric, I know you wanted to protect Hawke and I get it. Really, I do. But from now on, no more secrets. Any information that will help against Corypheus, you tell us.”

Varric hung his head, heaved a sigh. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Cassandra snarked, vindictive in a way Lavellan rarely saw.

He glared up at her. “You’ve made your point, Seeker.”

“Just…” She turned away and shook her head, the heat in her voice vanishing, replaced by a defeated slump to her shoulders. “Just go.”

Varric lingered, before he snorted and stalked off with a final muttered, “You people have done enough to her.”

Once Varric’s footsteps faded and the door to the armoury shut behind him, Cassandra turned from her spot and fell into a chair, head in her hands. Lavellan pulled up a chair in front of her.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”

“Why? You’ve made it clear that you’ve taken Varric’s side.”

“I wasn’t taking sides,” he sighed. “However angry or desperate to blame something you are, that was no reason to go after Varric like that. You could argue this is none of my business but you two are members of the Inquisition and I’m the Inquisitor. I have a duty to do right by both of you.” He paused, then shrugged. “Okay, that’s a lie. I’m butting in because you’re both my friends and I want to look out for both of you.”

That softened her. Somewhat. “If I’d just made him understand what was at stake…” She looked up at him. “But I didn’t.”

“Let’s say you tracked Hawke down. What then?”

“Honestly? I don’t think she would have agreed to become Inquisitor anyway. She supported the mage rebellion. I doubt she would trust me.” Cassandra hung her head again, lips twisting in self-deprecation. “But this isn’t about Hawke or Varric, not truly. I should have been smarter, more careful. Maker, I’m such a fool.”

“Everyone in the Inquisition is a fool, honestly.”

Cassandra offered him a wry smile. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“More at home, maybe. The fools who dared to change things, remember?” He smiled back. “Look, we’re all just… trying to do the right thing, looking out for people we care about. But we’re all just fumbling along too. We’re bound to make mistakes sometimes.”

“We cannot afford to make them often.”

“No,” he agreed. “But when we do and it couldn’t be helped, we shouldn’t beat ourselves up with a club and then bash our head against the wall for good measure.” That got a weak laugh out of her.

“I’m predictable, I know,” she said. “Maybe if we found Hawke or Tabris, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you.” She stood and he followed. “But you’re right. We do not know what will come and we can only do our best. You’re… more than I could have hoped for.”

That startled a laugh out of him.

She huffed. “I’m being serious!”

“I know,” he snorted. “I’m sorry, I just―” He rubbed the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle. “Well, at least my stumbling around hasn’t made you lose faith in me just yet.”

_“I have never lost faith in you,” she told him with a weary yet sincere smile and Lavellan matched the weariness of it with his own. The light of dusk cast severe shadows on their faces, revealing the true extent of their exhaustion_

_“Then you’re a fool,” he said._

_“I am about to march with you tomorrow morning against an ancient god, so yes, I suppose you could consider me a fool.” She clutched her fist close to her chest and bowed and his throat dried. “Wherever you lead us,” she said, an echo of her sentiment from so many years ago._

_“Don’t,” he said softly. “I will not lead you to death.”_

_“I will follow, regardless.” Her smile turned wry. “But I would not mind if you fought to live.”_

_“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”_

_“Solas is not the only one walking the path of death, Inquisitor.” Cassandra raised her head, a conflict of emotions warring in her eyes. All of them sad. “You have made your own.”_

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked which pulled him back into the present. He met her worried frown. 

“Oh, sorry. I just remembered― Well, never mind.” He looked out the small window and watched Varric’s distant, retreating form, placed the painful memories aside. “Apologise to Varric, alright? Before he goes to Crestwood.”

She pursed her lips and looked away. But he knew Cassandra. She'd always admit when she was in the wrong and would always seek to amend it. Always.

“If he will accept my apology,” she said.

“It’s not about the acceptance of apology. It’s the fact that you were remorseful and want to let them know you are.”

“True enough,” she said. “You say he is departing for Crestwood?”

“As am I. We’re searching for this lead of Hawke’s.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

He shook his head. “No, I was hoping you could investigate Lord Seeker Lucius and his whereabouts. We know the Lord Seeker at Therinfal was a demon so that begs the question of where the real one is.”

Cassandra nodded. “Perhaps I could work with Leliana to find where the missing Seekers are as well.”

“Thank you, Cassandra.” They walked out of the armoury, relieved that she’d cooled off significantly. “Try to do something to take your mind off of things for a moment. Time to rest your mind. Maybe read a book,” he said, knew exactly how that would make her react.

She sputtered. “We’ve no time for frivolous things.”

“There’s always time for frivolous things.” He looked down, recalled how he used to throw himself into his work. “The world won’t give you time, you have to find a pocket for yourself.”

Cassandra was quiet as she turned this over, before she sighed in acquiescence. “I will think on it, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan walked with Cassandra around the bailey for a few minutes longer, talking about the general mischiefs they'd witnessed so far in Skyhold, sharing a few more things about each other’s past. It relaxed him enough to make him feel like he could do this.

He later consoled and reassured Varric before seeing him and Hawke off. Cassandra did manage to apologise. Varric appreciated this at least but he was still pissed which was fair enough.

And when night fell and Lavellan slept, he woke up gasping in the dead of the night, a mantra of apologies falling from his lips wet with tears.

* * *

Crestwood was damp, dark, and miserable, the green of the lake rift refracting and glinting like emeralds in the water. They fought back the undead threatening Crestwood, met its mayor, and once upon a time, he would have been fooled by the act but now he saw the clearest signs. Happened when you kept close company with liars.

“There’s something about him,” Bull mumbled beside Lavellan.

“He’s lying,” he agreed. “Something’s got him uncomfortable about that dam.”

“Not bad, Mercy.”

“I’ve been around better liars,” he said and walked ahead.

He disliked Crestwood. The Veil was too thin and skittered over his skin, made him restless, and that just brought back memories of―

_“You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.”_

Lavellan stopped suddenly and his companions stared at him.

“You alright, Mercy?” Bull asked.

_“Stop. You are perfect exactly as you are.”_

“No, I don’t like it here,” he said, didn’t elaborate. This was partly why he didn’t want Solas tagging along either.

“Veil smells damp,” agreed Sera.

“I’ll say,” grumbled Dorian, hair sticking to his forehead from the rain.

Bull cooed at him. “What’s the matter ‘Vint? Not enough slaves to massage your footsies?”

“My footsies are freezing, thank you.”

“Behave, you two,” said Lavellan. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a keep to storm. The rest of the Inquisition forces have arrived to help us.”

They had to make their business here quick. Drain the lake, close the rift, find and speak to Stroud, and fuck right back off.

Before he lost his damn mind.

* * *

The Inquisition flag fluttered in the strong winds of the mild storm, claiming Caer Bronach for their own. Lavellan could already hear the Exalted Council’s faint arguments about the Inquisition’s expanding military might, and frowned in thought.

On one hand, Caer Bronach provided a fantastic strategic position for Leliana and the Inquisition’s spies. It was on a trading route from Ferelden to Orlais. Merchants talked. Merchants also sold things. On the other hand, the Inquisition was an independent organisation encroaching on Ferelden property and the political implications of this would bite them back in the ass in the future. If the Exalted Council was deemed necessary again.

Eh, screw it. Let the old, cantankerous men argue. They could suck Lavellan’s dick for all he cared.

“The Iron Bull’s found the door to the dam controls,” said Dorian behind him. Lavellan startled but managed to hide his physical reaction. “But this storm is wretched. Not a good idea to go outdoors.”

Lavellan looked at him, ignored how his heart pounded in alarm. “You look like a cat that’s been pushed into a bath,” he said.

“You just had to remind me,” Dorian grumbled. “The wet is sticking to my skin even after a change of clothes.”

“Welcome to the south.”

“I’m terribly charmed,” he drawled. “Come now, stop sulking here in silence. This keep is dreadfully quiet and cleaning up the dead bodies is ghastly.”

“ _You_ cleaned up dead bodies?”

“Well, no. I watched your forces clean up the dead bodies.”

Dorian led him away from the windows and to a large room which the Highwaymen Bandits had fashioned into a common room. There was already a fire roaring in the fireplace.

Blackwall was wiping down his armour while Sera left her shoes to dry out in front of the fire.

“When d’you think it’ll end?” Sera asked.

“The storm? Probably a day,” said Blackwall. “This one’s pretty mild. We can probably set out again in the morning.”

They had supper, a little something they'd picked up from the village, before settling into their own activities. Surprisingly, Blackwall fell asleep first. Sera would have drawn on his face but there was nothing to draw with so she and Dorian ended up competing over who could come up with the most elaborate insult. Meanwhile, Lavellan ended up in a corner with Bull.

Bull nursed a drink in his hand, silent as he stared at the fireplace, and Lavellan whittled away at a block of wood he'd picked up at Skyhold.

“You didn’t bring Solas?” Bull asked.

Lavellan paused his whittling, then resumed. “I asked him to work with Alexius. Make sure the Magister doesn’t try to feed us false information. Why?”

“Nothing.” Bull shrugged. “Just used to seeing you two travelling together. You work well with each other.”

“Solas can work well with anyone. That’s one of his strengths.”

“That’s true.”

Lavellan squinted at the block in his hand. Was he after a shape or was he just wasting another block of wood and dulling his knives?

“You two fought, didn’t you?” Bull eventually asked over the din.

“What makes you say that?” Lavellan asked, tone even.

He chuckled as he swirled the drink in his tankard. “Solas looked real unhappy when I last saw him. And you get this look in your eyes. It’s a ‘Solas has pissed me off once again’ kind of look. Can’t explain it.”

“Do you really have one of my facial expressions catalogued as the one dedicated to when I’m pissed at Solas?”

“Listen, I got to look out for it just in case I need to take a step back. Or start some bets.”

Lavellan kicked his foot and Bull chuckled.

Sera cursed at Dorian who cackled, accused him of making words up. Lavellan watched them with a small smile, before he resumed hacking away at the wood. Something was taking shape. He had no idea what yet though so maybe he’d keep at it.

“What about?” Bull asked.

“Huh?”

“The fight.”

“Oh.” _What else would you be?_ His wrist flicked sharply on a particular carve. “Differences in opinion.”

Bull laughed. “Yeah Mercy, that’s usually what happens in fights. What was the difference in opinion?”

Lavellan paused. Was it wise telling Bull?

At Lavellan’s extended silence, he raised both arms up in surrender, tankard and all. “Or not. No pressure.”

What harm would it do? It wasn’t anything important that Bull could use, and if he was going to betray them later anyway, it wasn’t like he would care.

Lavellan hesitated, and stared at Bull. Was it predetermined already that Bull would betray them? Lavellan already operated on that assumption but was that unfair of him? Were there variables he hadn’t considered?

“A disagreement about my title and my response to it,” Lavellan said slowly, testing the waters. Bull nodded, patient. “He calls me Inquisitor even when we’re alone. Or Herald when he wants to piss me off. I wanted him to call me by name like he used to before I became Inquisitor.”

“What’d he say?”

“Got annoyed at me for being so averse to being called by my title. Went on about how it’s how people see me and when I asked him if that’s how he saw me, he said, and I quote, ‘What else would you be?’” The words sent another lance of hurt through his heart but at least he wasn’t teary this time.

Bull grimaced into his drink. “Damn.”

Lavellan laughed in agreement. Damn, indeed.

“So I got angry at him. That’s not the reason why he isn’t with us though. I really did want him to work with Alexius.”

“You ever notice Solas goes out of his way to distance himself from us?” asked Bull.

“Always.”

“It’s almost like he’s afraid of something. Afraid of us? Could make sense. He _is_ an apostate and suddenly he’s surrounded by all these Templars and Circle mages.”

Afraid of realising this world was real.

Afraid of continuing his plan even if the world became real.

“Who knows what goes on in that head of his,” Lavellan said instead.

“Could be why he doesn’t call you by name. Dynamic imbalance too.”

“He didn’t have to be such a shit about it,” he grumbled. “I’m not _just_ Inquisitor. Maybe I can punch him then I can be the angry Inquisitor. Upgrade myself.”

Bull chuckled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Punch him? Watch me.”

“You’re pissed ‘cause you care, Mercy.” He downed what’s left of his drink and sighed in contentment. “Get it clarified when we come back. Cool off a bit.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, unconvinced.

Bull stood and stretched. “Well, I’m going to try and get some sleep. Nothing else to do. ‘less you wanna keep talking?”

Lavellan shook his head and smiled. “You go on and get some rest.”

“And you?”

“I’ll… try.”

He stared at Lavellan for a while longer before he turned and rested on his pile of hay. Bull fell asleep easy and woke up even easier, alert and rearing. Lavellan would envy the skill if he didn’t know why it was necessary for Bull to be that way.

Soon, Dorian and Sera bid Lavellan goodnight and he tried to sleep then. Really, he did.

He managed it but he awoke again at some point in the night, out of breath and on the verge of tears while his companions slept soundly around him. At least he didn’t wake them. Lavellan sat up with his hand covering his face, did the technique Josephine showed him to calm himself down, the stone clutched tight in one hand.

The fireplace was dim with only a soft flicker of flame licking across what little fuel was left. Lavellan fed it more wood and fanned it back to a brighter glow.

He watched the lambent flames curl before he retreated to a corner and took out the block of wood and his carving knives. Something to keep his mind preoccupied and his hands moving. Emptied his mind as he listened to the soft patter of rain, the occasional roll of thunder, the whispers of the Well, and the crackling pop of the flames.

Dawn soon flooded the room with soft gauzes of light, falling across the floor and his companions’ sleeping faces in gentle blades. 

The wooden block in his hand had taken on the crude form of a howling wolf.

His head knocked back against the wall and he groaned.

* * *

Old Crestwood was a monument to forgotten sins and unearthed regrets and it all left a rotten tang in Lavellan’s mouth. He tasted the death in the air. Or that could be the Veil being so battered here. He was somewhat glad for the elven artefact they spotted which he tinkered with and activated. Lavellan resisted experimenting with it and the mark again. Solas was right. Lavellan might accidentally bring the Veil crashing down on them and then where would they be?

At the mercy of the gods Solas had put in the longest time-out of history.

They stumbled across the spirit of Command who pointed at Lavellan, barking in its imperious rage.

“You there!” it demanded. “Change! Why aren’t you changing anything? I bid you to!”

Bull made a sound crossed between confusion and incredulity. Sera took three giant steps away.

“I can’t,” said Lavellan, regarding it with curiosity. “This is the physical realm. It doesn’t change like the Fade.”

“Ugh. Then what good is it?”

“If only Solas were here,” muttered Blackwall.

“Fascinating,” murmured Dorian. “It must be a lost spirit, drawn to the death in Old Crestwood.”

“Silence! Let the other one talk.” It turned to Lavellan, bending the light around it while glowing a wispy orange. “If this realm doesn’t change, then what’s the use of it?”

Lavellan blinked. “If you’re physical, you adhere to the rules of this realm. That way, you’re able to change it, somehow. It just changes in a different way. Not by will.”

His companions stared at him and Lavellan scowled.

“I listen to Solas sometimes,” he said in his defence.

“What manner of spirit are you then?” asked Dorian. “All spirits and demons encompass a concept. Compassion, pride, envy…”

“Demon?” it shrieked. “Those dolts who would suck this world dry? You insult me. I am called to higher things, higher than those soft virtues you dared call me. I am Command!” It faced Lavellan again. “You. I felt your coming. Is there something alike in us?”

“Maybe,” he conceded.

“He does command the Inquisition,” said Blackwall.

“I knew it!” it said. “Make your armies ready. Cleave to your loyal servants. You will need them all.”

A chill wracked his spine.

“If you hate this place so much, have you tried leaving?” Bull asked.

“I will not be denied. I will not leave until something obeys me.”

Lavellan sighed. “Very well. What command do you have?”

“What are you doing?” Sera hissed.

“It’s not leaving until it’s obeyed,” said Lavellan. “I can always refuse.”

Command sniffed in clear disdain and disapproval but continued. “I have but one command. A demon of rage had the gall to chase me across the lake. Destroy it and you shall be rewarded.”

“Rewarded how?” asked Bull. “By you piggybacking into one of our heads?”

“Yours holds no interest.”

There was a pause, before Dorian snickered into his hand, turning away with trembling shoulders. Blackwall cleared his throat.

Bull shrugged. “Works for me!”

And that was how they found themselves in a tunnel of dwarven architecture, battling a large Rage demon. That very tunnel also led to the rift in the lake so all’s well that ends well.

Until a Terror caught him by surprise and cleaved an impressive slash across his torso.

Alright. Then again, maybe not.

“Mercy!” cried Bull. “Hang on!”

Lavellan rolled away from the Terror, spilling blood all over the water. He forced himself up. Opened a sunder above the Terror while Sera’s arrows found its mark in the demon’s chest. It shrieked even as the sunder pulled it back into the Fade.

A wraith hit him with a ball of energy and the force of it jarred his bones, his jaw locking from the impact. Lavellan crashed.

He sputtered at the stale water and wiped it away from his lips with a dry patch of his sleeve. A barrier shimmered around him.

Lavellan pressed a hand against the wound and kept fighting, opened sunder after sunder. This was the last wave of demons. He could make it. Had to make it.

His vision flickered in and out of focus.

“Done!” cried Sera. “Close the frigging thing!”

Lavellan threw his hand up, couldn’t even focus on where the rift was and just relied on the connection between it and the Anchor. He felt it close.

He swayed.

Someone supported him, solid by his side. Broken voices whispered.

“Hurry― Stop him bleeding!”

“Working on it, Sera!”

Lavellan blacked out.

* * *

He woke up in a tent, Hawke sitting beside him with a map in her hands. She noticed him stirring and nodded at him.

“Hawke?” he croaked, voice and sight bleary. “Where...?”

“Back at an Inquisition camp,” she said. “Varric and I were on the way back to let you know we found where my contact was. Then your friends―” she jerked her head outside― “came hollering for me to help heal you. Are they always that lively?”

Lavellan squinted at the brightness and crossed his arm over his eyes, the pain across his torso now nothing but a dull, throbbing ache.

“Yes,” he said.

She snorted. “Mine as well.”

“Well if Varric is one of your friends, I can imagine the rest.”

“Whatever you’re imagining, make it ten times worse,” she grunted but he could discern the affection in her tone.

Lavellan sat up. Hawke didn’t fuss or try to ease him back down which he was immensely grateful for.

“Thanks,” he said. “Hope it wasn’t too much trouble. Last time mages tried to heal me, apparently I rejected the magic and started thrashing and screaming?”

Her brow raised in question. “No. You accepted mine alright. Your friend helped. The one with the groomed moustache. Though he exhausted most of his mana.”

“The one with the groomed moustache. He’ll be thrilled that that’s how you remember him.” Lavellan peeled the sheets over him. Not even a scar on his torso. Hawke and Dorian were good. “So, this Warden contact?”

“Roughly east of here. He’s hiding in a cave. He’ll be expecting us.”

“How long was I out for?”

Hawke hummed. “Most of the day.”

“Well then, let’s get going. Not a moment to lose.”

“Alright.”

She left the tent so he could get gear up, and when he got out, the sun’s base was close to the horizon. His companions were scattered around camp, but they looked up at his arrival.

“No,” was all Bull said before he stood and herded Lavellan back into the tent. “I don't think so. You need to rest.”

Lavellan dug his heels in. “We need to meet with the contact! Hawke gave me the clear!”

“I did,” agreed Hawke and Bull hesitated.

Varric jumped in. “Yeah, don’t listen to her. She’d keep pushing on even if she had an arrow in her gut and was bleeding out of twenty different holes.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Lavellan insisted and patted his torso. “Not even a scar. Hawke and Dorian patched me up just fine.”

“Don’t be a shit,” said Sera. “You barely get sleep and the next demon who says boo in your face will snag you right in the arse because you’re a nob.”

“It was an accident! It caught me by surprise!”

“Nothing catches you by surprise,” grunted Bull. “To the point that Solas had to put a warning bell on his staff so you wouldn’t shiv him if he comes up behind you.”

Lavellan huffed. “I’m just cautious.”

“You’re not helping your case, is what you’re being.” laughed Blackwall.

“Instead of seeing this Warden fop, make him come here instead,” Sera suggested.

Hawke shook her head. “Not a good idea. He’s a little wanted by the Grey Wardens.”

“Well Glowy isn’t going anywhere,” said Varric. “He needs to rest. Actually sleep.”

“And we need to meet the Warden,” said Lavellan.

They bickered. Honestly, it was him versus everyone. Hawke just watched on with her arms crossed and a vaguely amused glimmer in her eyes. Dorian was already fast asleep in his tent but Lavellan entertained that maybe Dorian would be on his side if he was awake.

“Maker, shut it!” came Dorian’s disgruntled voice as he snapped his tent flap open, glaring at them though it lost its edge because of his grogginess. “Just let him go!”

See?

“But he needs to rest,” Varric protested.

“Then don’t let him fight! Toddlers, the lot of you. Don’t you know compromise?”

Or not.

“As if that will work,” snorted Lavellan.

* * *

It worked.

Lavellan crossed his arms and harrumphed as his companions cleared away the rogue bandits who had ambushed them on the way. Any time he tried to join, Dorian would tut beside him. He sulked further and tapped his toes in impatience.

“I am not a child to be babysat,” he grumbled.

“Try not to act it then,” was Dorian’s sunny reply.

They made it to the cave where Stroud had camped and Lavellan’s disgruntlement vanished, replaced by growing dread. The last he saw Stroud was when―

_Too many eyes, dangling legs, not everybody could leave._

_A choice soon or they were all dead. One name or the other. Tasted like thorns as it lacerated his tongue when he said, “Stroud.” A piece sacrificed. A game of chess against death._

Hawke knocked a specific rhythm on the wooden door and it opened and Lavellan had to try and catch his breath. Stroud stood, wary and alert but welcoming as he ushered everyone in.

“Were you followed?” he asked when he shut the door.

“Bandits,” said Hawke, “but not the Wardens. I brought the Inquisitor.”

“Good.” He turned to Lavellan and tipped his head. “I am Warden Stroud, Inquisitor, and I am at your service.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Warden Stroud,” he said and swore to himself that he’d find a way to save him, this time. “I’ve a few questions if you don’t mind my asking.”

It was all posturing on Lavellan’s end. He just asked the right questions for his companions’ sake so they would be filled in.

They were on the subject of the Calling when Bull turned to Blackwall.

“Shit, you’ve been dealing with that this whole time? You good?”

And Stroud frowned, eyeing Blackwall who did a commendable job of trying not to fidget. He didn’t bring Blackwall along last time so this hadn't been an issue, and now Lavellan wanted to smash his head against the cave wall for his stupidity.

As everyone’s attention shifted to Blackwall, Lavellan caught Stroud’s eye and made an aborting motion with his hand. Wardens could sense other Wardens. And the significant _lack_ of the taint in somebody claiming to be a Warden.

“The Calling doesn’t scare me,” said Blackwall. “And worrying about it only gives it power. Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve.”

Thankfully, Stroud made no comment, and continued.

Lavellan wanted to shake Blackwall by the shoulders.

“I’ve been monitoring the Wardens’ movements,” said Stroud. “There’s movement in the Western Approach. I’m going to go there and investigate. I’ll let you know when something comes up.”

“We’ll send forward scouts when we return to Skyhold,” said Lavellan. “We’ll make sure the Inquisition’s presence remains subtle for now. Help you keep a close eye on the situation.”

Stroud nodded. “That will do. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“Need an extra hand?” asked Hawke.

“Or you could stay at Skyhold,” Lavellan offered. She frowned at the suggestion.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she murmured. “Champion or not, they know I practiced blood magic at some point.”

“You _what_?” Dorian asked.

Hawke glowered at him. “I don’t repeat myself. This is exactly what I mean. I don’t want to cause discomfort at your base, Inquisitor. Nor do I want to be at the end of it.”

Lavellan faltered, glanced at Varric. He raised his arms.

“Oh no, none of that Glowy. Hawke does what she wants. Besides, she’ll be happier travelling and I’ll see her again anyway. It’s ridiculously hard trying to get rid of her.”

Hawke smiled.

Lavellan relented. “Alright. But the offer stands if you change your plans.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she said in a way that was clear that her mind was made.

When his companions engaged in a discussion about the recent information they received, Stroud beckoned Lavellan over and he chewed on his lip. This was likely going to be about Blackwall. They stayed in a secluded area of the cave ― as secluded as it could get anyway ― and Blackwall glanced at them, nervous.

“Inquisitor, about this Warden friend of yours…” Stroud trailed off.

“I know,” said Lavellan. “He’s…” He looked down. In his past life, he'd admired Blackwall, admired his loyalty, his unshakeable morality. His belief in a better world and being a better person had stuck with Lavellan and when he thought of the word ‘honour’, the first person who'd come to mind was Blackwall.

And when the charade fell and all was brought to light in that dark and moonlit cell, Lavellan bowed his head and said his goodbye.

“He wants to be a better man,” he said. “He was set to be a Grey Warden, already conscripted by the real Warden Blackwall, but he died on the way. Ambushed by Darkspawn. He feared the Wardens would accuse him of killing Blackwall but was inspired by Blackwall giving his life to save him.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do about him just yet, but I trust him.”

Stroud frowned. “Even if he’s lying to you? This could be detrimental, Inquisitor. Others may need knowledge from him. Knowledge he cannot provide.”

The idea sparked. “Unless he completes his Joining,” said Lavellan.

“Begging your pardon, but there is still something suspicious happening regarding the Calling and Corypheus. That would not be ideal.”

“No, not now. But when things settle. Maybe he can complete his Joining and become a proper Grey Warden.”

Stroud made an uncertain noise. “Perhaps.”

“He doesn’t know I know. I won’t ask you to since I’m unsure about what the Grey Wardens would do to someone masquerading as one, but if you’d be willing, could you at least brief him about the Wardens and how they work?”

“Grey Warden business is strictly confidential.”

“I know. It’s just… a suggestion. I understand if it’s too much to ask.”

Stroud looked away for a moment, watching the warm, pulsing glow of a cluster of deep mushrooms growing on the cave wall, before he sighed.

“Very well, Inquisitor. But only if his fate does indeed return to the Grey Wardens. _When_ we sort out what’s happening.” Not if.

Lavellan nodded. “Thank you, Stroud. I’m sorry too. Don’t tell him I know. It would bring up too many questions I don’t think I can yet answer.”

He gave Lavellan a curious look but said nothing more about it. “I shall speak to him in private then.”

When Lavellan and his company was ready to leave, Stroud called for Blackwall. Poor man looked like he was about to plummet into his own grave as he walked towards Stroud.

“Why’s he staying?” asked Varric.

“Warden to Warden things,” said Stroud. “Very confidential. Don’t worry, I will return him in one piece.”

“Go on,” said Blackwall and Lavellan commended his steady tone. “I’ll meet you back at the keep.”

Lavellan wished Blackwall good luck as they exited the cave. Night had already fallen. 

“So Dorian,” said Bull, “looks like that Warden’s beaten you on the ‘stache department.”

“The _what_ department?” asked Dorian before it dawned on him and his expression soured. “Oh. Yes. Funny, you.”

Lavellan turned east on the road and earned a questioning sound from Varric.

“Keep’s that way,” he said.

“Going back to Crestwood village,” said Lavellan. “Letting the mayor know we have the rift sealed.” Though he knew the mayor was gone. No matter, it was for the villagers’ sakes. 

The mayor was indeed gone when they arrived. Sera cursed up a storm as Lavellan gently broke the news to the villagers showed them the letter the mayor left behind.

“We’re finding that pissbag right?” asked Sera. 

“And then some,” Lavellan promised.

* * *

Bull and Dorian bullied Lavellan into sleeping and it worked for a while, but he woke up again after a few measly hours.

They were all asleep and couldn’t exactly stop him from sneaking out.

When Blackwall returned to Caer Bronach, the moon was at its zenith and Lavellan was up on the battlements, submitting to the fact that his wood carving was indeed a howling wolf.

Lavellan held a hand up to his torso with a bitter twist to his lips. They were right though. He'd gotten sloppy today. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, but something nagged at him, urged him that there was something he had forgotten.

Lavellan shot up and his eyes snapped open.

The Command spirit!

Was it wise heading out at this ungodly time of the night?

No, but Lavellan’s judgement wasn’t exactly superb right now so he snuck into the common room to gear up then left. He was almost out the keep’s gatehouse when a stern, “No, you don’t,” stopped him. Lavellan turned and found Blackwall scowling at him, arms crossed, looking every bit like an unhappy father who'd caught their child sneaking out during the night.

“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?” he asked.

Lavellan chuckled nervously. “Was going to go talk to the Command spirit?”

Blackwall stared at him, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Andraste’s tits,” he muttered to himself. “You should be resting.”

“Nightmares,” said Lavellan. “I have them a lot. Can’t exactly sleep.”

He paused, thought it over, before he said, “Then let me accompany you.”

“Only if you don’t give me a lecture on the way. Had enough of that from Dorian and Bull.”

Blackwall chuckled and the two walked. “I doubt you’d listen.”

“You know me well.”

Old Crestwood was eerie at night but at least it could now breathe in peace. No more demons who would possess the dead. Lavellan had promised the villagers that he would help exhume and cremate the bodies from Old Crestwood.

The waters from the sea lapped on the far shore, misty and frothy-edged, strings of diamond on its turbulent surface.

He and Blackwall walked in silence, again sitting in the middle of awkward and comfortable. When Lavellan met the Command spirit, it imparted him with… something. It wrapped around him, faint needles upon his skin, before dissipating.

“Use it well,” it said.

“What is it?” he asked.

“To make enemies fear you, to make allies respect you. To make mighty armies tremble beneath your imperious gaze, to help the helpless find shelter in your grace. Nothing you don’t already have, but I will help them see. But worry not. Even the commanding must command from where they are unseen. Wish it, and you will be a beacon. Wish otherwise, and you will not be.”

And it disappeared, left the Veil wavering in its wake before settling, strengthened by the artefact he had activated earlier.

“I understood nothing about that,” admitted Blackwall.

“I vaguely did? Must be an aura to help with the whole leadership thing.” Lavellan shook his head. “Well, let’s head back.”

“You seem to know a lot about spirits and the Fade. I mean, not as much as Solas, but still.”

“Sister’s a mage. She tells me these things.” True enough. “And like I said, I listen to Solas.”

Blackwall eyed him as they walked.

“What were you and Warden Stroud talking about?” he asked. Guy really forewent the subtlety, huh?

“More about Corypheus. Was letting him know about what happened at Haven.” Lavellan raised a brow at him. “You?”

Blackwall cleared his throat. “Confidential Warden things,” he mumbled.

“Ah,” said Lavellan and said nothing more on the subject.

“He made me promise,” Blackwall said under his breath and Lavellan pretended he didn’t hear it.

* * *

They spent longer than he'd expected at Crestwood ― over a week. In between helping the Inquisition establish themselves at Caer Bronach, helping Crestwood village to get back up on its feet after the mayor’s disappearance and the revelation of Old Crestwood, getting rid of the remainder of the Highwaymen, closing rifts, tracking dead Inquisition spies, and even stumbling into Venatori and Red Templars scouring about an elven ruin―

Well, they had their hands full.

Lavellan refused to look at the wolf statue near that elven ruin.

He already had another wolf effigy on him. The wooden carving. Lavellan had always adored the detail work so he'd gone a step further and carved the fur. He was quite proud of it. A wolf, howling skywards, complete with a notch on its hackles to loop a string through. He planned to carve two more since he couldn’t leave one on its own. In a way, it was his message to Solas that he didn’t need to be alone. Shouldn’t be.

Lavellan was still angry at him though.

He wrote back and forth to his advisors, mostly Leliana, updating them on the state of Crestwood and tracking down the traitor among Leliana’s agents. Hawke and Stroud said their goodbyes midweek and set off for the Western Approach.

And over the course of that week, not once did Lavellan get more than a few hours of sleep every night. He could feel its toll. His reaction time was slowing, he was quick to irritate, and he cried far too often whenever he carved the wolf. Dorian and Bull hovered over him like offended mother hens and he wasn’t blind to Sera’s strange tactic of trying to bore him with stories. But this was Sera. Any stories she told had him cackling. He was pretty sure she'd forgotten what her original objectives were in the first place.

Lavellan dozed during random moments of the day. Sometimes he fell asleep without meaning to. Those stolen naps were never satisfactory.

One night, a nightmare woke him once again and he wept.

He was so _tired_.

It was Varric who he had accidentally woken up. Varric who had wrapped a blanket around Lavellan and murmured stories to him to take his mind off it and maybe help him sleep. It _should_ have helped him sleep. Stories helped him sleep.

Not this time.

Two nights later, a small supply of sleeping elixirs arrived at Caer Bronach and Dorian pushed them into his chest. Lavellan read the letter tied to one of the flasks.

> _Inquisitor,_
> 
> _I brewed these myself and it should hopefully suffice. These will induce a dreamless sleep although it is a temporary measure. It will do for two nights._
> 
> _Solas_

Lavellan must be so out of it because all he blurted out was, “He’s got nice handwriting.” Followed by, “But I’m still mad at him.”

“Alright, let’s tuck the baby into bed,” said Varric.

Lavellan glared. “I’m your boss.”

“Yes, yes. The baby boss.”

“Toddler,” Dorian amended and the two of them grabbed him.

“I am your Inquisitor! Unhand me!”

“Oh, what’s this?” Bull asked as he stumbled into Varric and Dorian attempting to drag a thrashing Lavellan. “Need some help?”

“All yours, Tiny,” said Varric.

Bull hauled Lavellan up and threw him over his shoulders as if he were a sack of onions.

“Put me down!”

“Oh, I will,” said Bull airily. “Let’s find your cot.”

He chucked Lavellan unceremoniously down on the cot despite his loud protests and Sera came barrelling in with a blanket which she shoved over his face as she pushed him down.

“Alright pissypants, hold still,” she said.

“It’s the middle of the damn day!” he yelled at them. “I’ve got things left to do―”

“Either drink this elixir yourself or we’ll force-feed you and it will be embarrassing for all of us, I’m sure,” said Dorian.

Lavellan, dignity already stung, could only glare. Dorian crossed his arms and arched a challenging brow before Lavellan relented with a grumble.

“Fine, but only for a few hours,” he muttered.

Varric handed him the bottle. Lavellan took it grumpily, stared at the letter with even more petulance, and drank half the bottle. Vaguely sweet, earthiness wisping like smoke around his tongue.

He settled into his cot with a scowl. His companions gave him self-satisfied smiles before Varric jokingly tucked him in.

“Want me to sing you a lullaby?” Bull asked.

“You’re supposed to put him to sleep, not make his ears bleed,” said Dorian.

“Hey, I’ve got a nice singing voice. All deep and smooth and stuff. It’s real nice. You’re hurting my feelings a little here, Dorian.”

“Only a little? Apologies. I’ll try harder.”

“All that effort for me? I’m touched.”

“Oh for―”

But their voices grew hazy and Lavellan's body was heavy, pulling, the Fade calling for his dreaming conscious. He would have fallen into that dreaming state but something soft was in the way. A net. And Lavellan succumbed to sleep at last.

When Lavellan next opened his eyes, it was dusk.

He groaned, entire body heavy, and sat up. It wasn't a good rest, but it was a rest at least. His head felt as if a brick weighed it down and a tight band constricted it, and Lavellan rubbed his eyes. The world was strange. Bleary. Like he was still half-asleep. When he stood, he felt as if he were floating.

Well. That didn’t sound good.

He parted the tent flap and shielded his eyes from the sun even if twilight had already softened it.

A few scouts loitering around the keep saluted as he passed and it took all his effort to nod in return and not look like an undead. He scoured the keep for familiar faces and finally found Varric speaking to one of the merchants trading their wares. Varric spotted Lavellan and waved the merchant off.

“Maker’s balls," he said at Lavellan's approach. "You look like shit.”

Lavellan could only manage a grunt.

“I thought the elixir Chuckles made was supposed to help.”

He licked his dried mouth and forced his voice to work. “It did. Make me sleep. Didn’t say a good sleep. He did mention it was a temporary measure.” Mythal's mercy, his voice sounded like a demon's croak. Varric must have thought so too judging by his grimace. “Besides, only slept for a few hours.”

Varric chuckled nervously. “Uh, yeah. About that. That was a whole day ago.”

Lavellan stared at him.

Then he sighed. “I think it's time to return to Skyhold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's on: sleep deprivation. The companions are this 👌 close to suplexing Lavellan into a bed. (Hawke also sucks at taking care of herself, please don't listen to her). Anyway, Inquisition forgot the teeny detail that Wardens can sense the taint. 
> 
> Sorry about the HEFTY chapter. It was originally spread over two chapters but then I moved things around and so I had to smoosh the Crestwood stuff into one place.
> 
> And thank you for all the kind and lovely comments last chapter. Absolute champs, you lot 🥺🥺💕💕 I was very touched and taken aback by the response.
> 
> Psst, I made a Tumblr for this fic! --> [noverturemusings](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/). Screencaps of my Lavellan is there if you'd like to see (feel free to ignore if you've already built up an image of him in your mind, I know how jarring it can be when it contradicts with the image you've constructed pft-) and also, a [drawing](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/622063614439964672/drawn-by-the-wonderful-ani3anani-3-i-am-over-the) by [ani3anani (Wraithempath)](https://ani3anani.tumblr.com/) whiCH IS PRETTY DAMN COOL YALL. I AM FLIPPING MY SHIT. Might drop miscellaneous things like moodboards or deleted sections or something there in the future too. You can message me there or ask me stuff about the story if that floats thy boat.


	21. Fluffy feathered fiends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Missveils](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missveils/profile) suggested the song [Two Hungry Blackbirds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmE8EpIAXIk) by Iron and Wine which has me feeling solavellan emotions. Got that perfect mix of yearning, subtle but impending and inevitable sense of loss, soft hopelessness, and melancholic intimacy and I just really dig it and the lyrics. I'm emotionally devastated. Also the guitar is just *chef's kiss* and I tried to play it but uh, we don't talk about that.
> 
> Okay, gonna stop gushing! Continue.

_new hurts and old―_

* * *

They stopped to rest the horses by the edge of a forest en route to Skyhold when a distressed caw caught Lavellan’s attention. He glanced up from patting his horse, strained his ears for the sound, bid his chatting companions to hush.

“What’s up, Mercy?” Bull asked.

Lavellan stayed quiet. Waited. It wasn’t long before he heard another cry and he catalogued the sound in his mind. Being around Leliana’s messenger ravens long enough had familiarised him to that call. It had to be a red-crested raven.

“Wait here,” he said and headed for the sound. He took his bow with him and readied an arrow, scanning the surroundings as he waded through the forest in case the call had attracted predators.

There!

He was right; it was a red-crested raven. The poor thing had a broken wing, thrashing in the underbrush in its distress. Lavellan put his weapon away. The raven glanced at his slow approach and snapped its beak.

“Hey there,” he said softly. “I won't hurt you.”

It flapped its wings, maybe in a bid to move back, but all that accomplished was kicking up soil and dry leaves. Had he taken a second longer, an opportunistic animal would have snapped up the raven. Lavellan reached for it, gentle, careful.

“Help,” it mimicked. “Help.”

These ravens had always been pretty intelligent. It wasn’t unusual for one of the messenger ravens to repeat their handler’s name or something like, “Dick,” at innocent passers-by. Sometimes whole phrases. “What’s for food?” was popular.

The raven allowed him to approach and even touch it. Her. No underbelly crest. He fashioned a temporary wrap from the bandages he was carrying in his pouch and murmured reassurances as he wrapped her wing to her body.

He carefully lifted her close to him and returned to the others. Their gazes fell on the raven.

“Of course you’d rescue birds too,” said Varric. “Yeah, that just fits.”

“That one of Red’s?” asked Bull.

“No. No canisters on the back. I need some supplies. She doesn’t need a splint but I just need to secure the wrappings.”

“She?”

“No underside crest.” He frowned at Dorian. “Think you can heal her? Fractured bone.”

He frowned and hummed in thought. “I can mend flesh, but bones are a little beyond me. Solas would be better suited for this. Or even Fiona. I believe she’s a spirit healer.”

Lavellan sighed. “Worth a shot.”

“Or you know,” said Sera, “let it heal. On its own. Without magic. Poor fluffer’s scared enough, look at her.”

The raven trembled in Lavellan’s arm. He stroked her and murmured more reassurances.

“Alright, let’s get back to Skyhold. We’ve got another hour left and I’m sure somebody there can have a look at her.”

Lavellan relinquished his horse to Dorian and rode in the carriage, grabbing one of the empty crates and stuffing it with soft materials for the raven before placing it under the sunlight for warmth. When they moved into the snowy areas of the Frostbacks, Lavellan grabbed more blankets.

“Hi,” said the raven at one point, snapping her beak at Lavellan. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said back.

“Hi.”

“What words do you know, clever girl?”

“Clever.”

Lavellan laughed and Sera taught her swears during the ride despite Lavellan’s disapproving noises. When they reached Skyhold, Lavellan relaxed. An involuntary response. Perhaps he missed Skyhold more than he cared to admit because his mind still associated it with _home_. In any case, the repairs had progressed at an impressive rate.

“They worked pretty fast,” said Bull with a low whistle.

“You can’t blame them,” said Blackwall. “This is a place of hope.”

“Alright, you guys go on ahead and get a drink or something,” said Lavellan. “I’ll take this bird to a healer. Maybe there’s one for animals.”

Dorian squinted at him. “And then it’s off to bed with you.”

“Dorian, it’s the afternoon.”

“And? I didn’t say sleep. Lie down before you collapse.”

Lavellan grumbled at him and walked off in search of an animal healer. They introduced him to Laina who promised the bird would recover in two weeks. He stayed while she cleaned the raven, but when Lavellan tried to leave, the raven kicked up a mighty fuss and flapped its wings after him, cawed and made a racket and only calmed once he swept her back up in his arms. Otherwise her struggle may undo the wrapping and damage her wing further.

“My apologies, Inquisitor,” said Laina. “I fear the bird has grown attached to you. I could attempt to sedate her―”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll take her.” He smiled at her. “Could you teach me how to take care of her?”

“Of course. She isn’t under much shock, which is relieving. Your presence certainly helps. Here, I’ll write a few things down!”

And that was how he showed up to his War Council with a bird in his arm.

Leliana stared. “Is that one of mine?”

“No,” he said. “I found her injured in the forest. Could I borrow some of your feed later? And water.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Hi,” said the raven.

Josephine hid her adoring smile behind her board and cleared her throat. “Let us begin,” she said, professional and calm, but nobody was fooled. “Will you tell us what happened at Crestwood?”

He spoke of the mayor and arranged to find him, then updated them on the Wardens and Corypheus situation and organised the establishment of a forward camp at the Western Approach. 

In turn, he learned of the progress of repairs in Skyhold and that his quarters were ready, and that the peace talks at the Winter Palace which would take place in four months. The perfect place for an assassination.

Josephine’s eyes glimmered when she said, “Of course, that would involve training the Inquisitor in Orlesian politics and proper etiquette and navigating court and playing the Grand Game.”

After he'd navigated Tevinter’s court, he was confident he could handle Orlais.

What a wild ride that night had been. He'd caught wind of six murders just on the walk from the banquet table to the dance floor, interrupted another murder which involved a virgin pig and a cheese platter, stumbled across a blood magic ritual which required an orgy of no less than sixty people, and got himself either drugged or poisoned. He still wasn’t clear on that. All he had were hazy memories of fighting before waking with his prosthetic missing and someone's severed pinkie in his pocket along with a note saying, “Never be this careless again,” written in Solas’ hand.

Lavellan didn’t want to talk about it.

They mistook his sour face to be directed at the prospect of training.

“Cheer up,” said Leliana. “It won’t be that bad.”

Lavellan didn’t correct them.

“Oh, we must teach him about the ballroom dances and― Oh goodness, we mustn’t forget that there are four subtypes for the Valse, and they are appropriate only for specific echelons of the nobility and we need to start thinking about the proper greetings for―”

“Breathe, Josephine,” Lavellan reminded. “And we don’t even have an invitation yet.”

Josephine cleared her throat once again and ignored Leliana and Cullen’s amused stares. “That may be so, Inquisitor, but we _must_ attend the peace talks. It is where Orlais’ most powerful will be gathered.”

“They should really stop gathering powerful people all in one place,” he mused.

“We will begin the etiquette lessons.”

“Yay,” he drawled. “Who’s teaching me?”

“Leliana and me, of course. Oh, and Madame de Fer perhaps. We could also procure outside instructors.”

“Speaking of instructors,” said Leliana. “Inquisitor, I have looked into the matter of your training, combat-wise. I have narrowed it down to three trainers. Take your pick, either one or all, and I will send for them at once. The Arcanist also arrived four days ago. She’s in the Undercroft, if you wish to meet her.”

He nodded his thanks, looked over the trainers she'd picked and immediately chose Kihm, his old trainer. The man would break a flask over his head without blinking. Lavellan was a little pleased that things were coming back together again, but like all good things in his life, that didn’t last long.

“One other matter,” said Leliana and took out a roll of paper, tied with a halla leather cord. Lavellan’s stomach dropped. “This arrived earlier this morning.”

She handed it to him and he opened it, making sure not to disturb the raven, already knew the distressed message it contained. No hidden letters from Ellana.

He had been so panicked, so desperate last time, that once he found out that there was something strange regarding the Duke of Wycome, he had ordered for his assassination. That was a mistake. It was due to his panic, his oversight, that they'd lost their lives.

Never again.

This time, he'd be careful.

He showed them the letter and waited for them to read.

“That is strange,” said Josephine. “The Duke shouldn’t have let raiders this close. Let me contact him. He is an ally of the Inquisition.”

“No,” he said, more forceful than he intended. “Cullen, I want forces sent to the Marches immediately to protect my clan, Leliana, I want information on this Duke. Prod around.”

His response left them speechless.

“Are you sure?” Cullen eventually asked. “This may be a bit of an extreme reaction.”

“Commander, this is my family. Something is suspicious. Trust me, please.”

Cullen pressed his lips tight but nodded. “Alright, Inquisitor.”

They let him hold onto the letter and soon, he dismissed the War Council. Lavellan secured the raven and walked to the Undercroft to meet with Dagna who cooed over his raven, then cooed over his hand. Some of his tension lifted due to her mad and infectious excitable energy. He stayed longer than he'd expected. They talked about ingenious equipment and he brought up the grappling hook idea once more, as well as a way to work enchantments into their weapons and armour.

By the time he left, it was already late in the night.

He considered retiring to his quarters but the thought of nightmares soured the idea, so he headed straight for the old library below the Hall. Lavellan let the raven roost in a stack of old, crumpled papers while he worked in the candlelight and wrote condolence letters for the family of soldiers who had died at Haven. Cullen had given him the list during the Council and Lavellan was torn between hysterical laughter and tears when he'd read it.

The list was significantly shorter.

Lavellan had changed things. He was given this chance, and he had to make good use of it.

So he wrote. Poured his gratitude, his grief, his hopes into the letters. He made sure they weren’t just copied from each other, made sure they weren’t generic, because those soldiers and their families deserved more than that.

It was far too easy to forget value of life when you presided decisions which would influence it.

Meanwhile, the raven hopped all over the table. Lavellan asked her to stop since he didn't want her aggravating her injuries and surprisingly, she listened. 

“You’re rather well-behaved for a raven, aren’t you?” he asked. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to steal―” She nipped at his quill and hopped off with it, turned her head and dragged the nib over the crumpled papers and drew squiggles all over it. Lavellan chuckled. “Alright, miss, hand it over. I need to write these.”

She dropped the quill and said, “Rest.”

“You’re perfectly free to doze off.”

“Rest,” she said again. “Inquisitor. Rest.”

He paused, stared. Red-crested ravens were even smarter than the common ravens who were already plenty of trouble on their own, but did they usually pick things up this fast?

Lavellan stroked the underside of her beak. Her crooked, scary beak. These red-crests looked plain terrifying and intimidating.

“Not my name, feathers. That’s a title. I’m Mahanon, of Clan Lavellan.” Was he introducing himself to a bird?

“Lavellan,” said she. Repeated it in glee.

He smiled and rolled his eyes as he picked up the quill and started on the letters. She hopped on his arm at one point and pecked his fingers.

“Rest. Lavellan rest.”

“Not you too,” he groaned. It was fascinating though. The words she said had different pitches which meant she'd learned them from different people. Even more impressive that she'd retained them. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised.

In the end though, he fell asleep in the library. Woke up again, of course, dreaming of fire and blades and the death of his clan and their shattered screams― _Mahanon, why weren’t you here?_

He grumbled. The raven was asleep in her nest of crumpled papers. He reached for his pack and took out his carving tools and another block of wood, this time a lighter wood than the first wolf, and set to work. Listened to the sounds of Skyhold waking as his indication of the time, humming his mother’s lullaby.

It almost sounded as if the Well was humming with him.

* * *

He met Kihm again and Lavellan’s memory of him was accurate enough. Jumped right in, threw Lavellan into the deep end, offered no explanation when he chucked Lavellan a bottle and said, “Now make the tempest.”

It was the alchemical preservative. The one he'd later treat the leather and cloth of his armour with so he wouldn’t burn or freeze or zap himself with the flasks. Although the preservative also catalysed the reaction with the flasks.

Anyway, he digressed.

That alone had taken him the whole day before, but now he breezed through it. He'd made it so many times before that he could do it in his sleep. Not that he was doing much of that.

“See, its unique properties all boils down to the emulsion between spindleweed extract and oil from either rashvine or dragonthorn,” he gushed to an attentive Dagna as he prepared it, “and that acts as resistance but introducing spirit essence makes them responsive to the cold, fire, or electric essences in the flasks and―”

The formula blew up when Kihm opened the bottle.

The raven squawked in shock on Lavellan’s shoulder.

“Ha!” barked Kihm. “That was no tempest. That was a disaster! Do it again!”

Lavellan grumbled and pulled up the book to see if he really did screw it up. Then hit his head on the table. This was the old formula. He’d prepared according to the newer one.

So he redid it. Careful and attentive this time.

Kihm poured that second attempt over the grass, harrumphed, and gave it back. “Too viscous. I’m teaching you to be a gale, not a bog. Again!”

“What am I doing wrong?” he yelled at the book once he was back in the Undercroft. Dagna patted him on the back.

Lavellan tried again.

“Smells like my great grandmother’s old smoked cheese pantry. Are you trying to kill your enemies by stench?”

And again.

“If I asked for piss, I would have gone into your tavern.”

And once more.

“Do you understand what a storm is, Inquisitor? It _wisps_ , but it is heavy. This has the consistency of a Fereldan mangling an Orlesian accent! Again!”

He had to do it so many times that his raven stopped panicking when he left her at the Undercroft because he would always return. Always.

Lavellan hadn’t realised a hammer hitting an anvil could sound so sympathetic but there was Harritt doing exactly that. The smiths in the Undercroft shot Lavellan amused looks.

“You know, Inquisitor,” started Dagna, “I get a lot of things wrong too when I’m tired. It’s like you _swore_ it was this number but then you don’t really pay attention and suddenly there’s one too many lines and now it’s a different number.”

“Lavellan rest,” cried the raven.

He let his head fall on the table with a sold thunk and a garbled, “ _Urghg_.”

There was one final option left.

He came barrelling into Josephine’s office, deliriously asking where she kept her stash of ground Antivan coffee.

She pursed her lips as she narrowed her eyes up at him. “I’ll have a cup sent to you,” she said, perhaps sensed his inane plan to consume five cups of it in succession.

“Six,” he said.

Her brows shot up. “Absolutely not! Antivan coffee is stronger than the variety circulating in the south.”

“I’m aware.”

“Two.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

She massaged her temples. “Three. But not at the same time.”

“Deal,” he said. So there he was all but inhaling a cup of scalding Antivan coffee and it hit mercilessly. Good. He redid the formula in that awake state, felt like a tempest himself.

Kihm finally approved of it but called it the end for the day’s training.

“Tomorrow, I expect your armour treated with the formula you have made. Then we will see if it can weather the storm.”

He raced back to Dagna and Harritt, absolutely buzzed on the coffee, his heart racing, fingers jittering. They looked up at him in worry. He waved them off, let his raven perch on his shoulders again as he ran off, brimming with energy. It was late afternoon. There was much left to be done! The second cup arrived and he downed it.

Lavellan roamed Skyhold, checked how went repairs, before he dropped in on Cassandra reading Swords and Shields. She startled and hid the book as she stood.

“Glad to see you’ve taken my advice,” he said.

“I―” She frowned at the raven. “I take it that’s the bird Bull was talking about.”

“The one and only. Say hello to Cassandra.”

The raven opened her beak, tilted her head back, said, “Wow.”

Lavellan burst into laughter. But he wasn’t letting Cassandra off the hook so easily and he was back to teasing her about the book, prodding, and this was it. An idea to reconcile her and Varric. Somewhat. And off Lavellan went towards Varric, asking him to write for Cassandra, bouncing on his heels. Varric laughed, mildly hesitant.

“You doing alright, Glowy?”

“Oh yeah. Just feeling energetic.”

“Oh good! Did you finally get some sleep?”

Lavellan waved him off. “It’s fine. I can take on the day!”

“It’s night.”

“Even better.”

And he was off again before Varric could comment further. He was halfway across the courtyard when he ran into Chancellor Roderick.

The two of them stared at each other in tense silence, the firelight from Roderick’s torch flickering over their faces. His gaze fell on Lavellan’s raven but he didn’t ask.

Roderick broke the silence when he greeted, “Herald.”

“Chancellor Roderick,” Lavellan returned, unsure if his trembling hands stemmed from the coffee or the disconcertion from seeing a face which had died by this time in his past life. Roderick was sorry during his final moments, Dorian had said. “I’m not sure if I’ve done so already but I’ve been meaning to thank you. For lending your aid during Haven.”

He nodded stiffly. Lavellan resisted fidgeting.

“Were you alright during the trek to Skyhold?” he asked to fill the silence. Grimaced internally. Small talk.

“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Congratulations on becoming Inquisitor.”

“Thank you.”

More awkward silence. Lavellan stared at a passing worker and their wagon of bricks as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Roderick sighed. “Inquisitor, I believe apologies are in order.” Lavellan eyed him. This was so… surreal. “For my hostility towards you. The Conclave and― We were left unmoored and the declaration of you as the Herald left us all uncertain. It went against everything I’ve learned to revere.” He shook his head and Lavellan’s brows raised at the confession. “But the night after the attack… You’ve inspired faith in others with a purity I’ve never felt outside of the most sanctified of moments.”

And Lavellan was back to being uncomfortable. Thankfully, Roderick didn’t look upon him as if he were the world’s holiest saviour and Lavellan never realised how refreshing that was.

“Many questions remain,” continued Roderick, “but sometimes, perhaps they don’t need to be asked. I’m still as uncertain as I was but I know now that the faithful are in good hands.” Were they? In Lavellan’s hands, really? “So I’m sorry, Inquisitor. If you will accept it.”

Lavellan’s gaze softened. “You were frightened, I understand. And I’m sorry too that I can’t offer you any certainties. I can only promise to look after everyone as best as I can.”

“Thank you,” said Roderick.

“Will you be staying at Skyhold?”

He shook his head. “No. I will be returning to Val Royeaux by next week. Bureaucratic matters to attend to in the Grand Cathedral.”

“I see. I hope you have a safe trip.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I must be going. I still have a few tasks for Mother Marianne.”

“I wouldn’t wish to keep you. Have a good evening.”

“Maker be with you, Inquisitor,” he said and left Lavellan be. He smiled wryly at Roderick’s retreating back. The god with him was not the Maker.

It was an ancient wolf.

That interaction left Lavellan shaken so he swung by the tavern and spent time with Bull and the Chargers to take his mind off it. He forewent the drinks and had a jolly good time. This was fine. It was all fine. Perfect, one could say. He shared anecdotes with Dalish, joined Bull in coming up with inane nicknames for Krem, and listened to their rowdy stories and bawdy songs. His raven had a blast hopping from people’s shoulders to arms to heads.

“By the way, Mercy,” said Bull, speech a tad slurred. “Solas was looking for you.”

Lavellan kept his expression neutral. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t ask. You’ve been avoiding him.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve just been busy.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was! Let me tell you how many times that alchemical formula blew in my face.”

He was _not_ avoiding Solas.

* * *

He was avoiding Solas.

Lavellan stared at the door leading to the rotunda as if it had committed a personal offence against him and his predecessors. Well, it wasn’t like he was here for Solas. He was here so he could use the table in the rotunda, was all. The old library was still too dusty and he kept sneezing. Yes.

So he opened the door, walked on through. Froze at the doorway.

There was a relieving lack of Solas, but the vivid paint adorning the walls had stopped him in his tracks. 

_“This is your fortress,” Solas said, “and as such, I thought it fitting that it should bear witness to your actions. Do you like it?”_

_“I love it.”_

And Lavellan almost tasted the regret in the air, sorrow with each brush stroke, guilt with each shape. This was Solas’ fortress. Yet there was Lavellan and the Inquisition, imprinted upon the walls by Solas’ own hand. Why?

He'd heard that a demon of regret later dwelled in the plaster, the very pigments, roaring that it had risen from the regrets of a god.

Solas had completed one wall while Lavellan was away, this one detailing the Breach and the Conclave. Bold lines. Bold colours. Planned extensively beforehand and then utter confidence in the execution.

His fingers ghosted over the wall. It had dried already. Lavellan noted the supplies tucked away in a corner.

The next wall was still blank. Lavellan didn’t doubt it was already planned.

Solas still hadn’t arrived at that point so Lavellan sat at the table, dazed. Nobody was in the library above. Even further up were the occasional caws of the ravens and his raven glanced up, tilting her head.

“They’re our messengers,” he said.

Lavellan pulled out the quill and inkwell and began anew on his letters. Only a few remaining.

At some point, even the ravens above ceased their squawks, gone to sleep. His raven also fell asleep on his lap.

He was left in the din, the candles flickering with their light, basking in the silence of the night, sleep beyond reach. Not that he was seeking it in the first place. That was a futile avenue.

It was peaceful. Somewhat. He found himself humming again. Always the lullaby.

“Inquisitor.”

He stopped humming. Farewell, peace. They had a good run.

“Solas,” he greeted, not once looking up from his letters, gripping his quill as if it could be his lifeline.

The silence dragged for an awfully long time.

“Welcome back,” said Solas.

“Thank you.”

More silence. He could tell Solas was struggling.

“How was Crestwood?”

Lavellan raised a brow. Solas despised small talk and yet here he was.

His grip on the quill tightened because Solas’ words were still fresh in Lavellan’s mind and it hurt, dug deep. 

“Damp,” was his reply but didn’t elaborate.

“Did you manage to sleep?”

“Don’t start,” grumbled Lavellan. His grip and forceful writing snapped the nib on the quill and he cursed. Why was Solas still hovering behind him? It was placing him on edge. “Why are you lurking at the back? Come out here and actually speak to me face-to-face.” He stared down at the raven in his lap. “I’d do it but I’m indisposed.”

He kept his gaze on the raven even as Solas appeared at the edge of his vision.

Solas made a soft noise. “So it was true. The Inquisitor has taken in a raven.”

Lavellan mustered what courage he had left, pulling on the dregs of the coffee though it had mostly worn off (and he noted that the third cup never came despite his deal with Josephine), and met Solas’ gaze.

Solas frowned. “Inquisitor, I’ll ask again: have you been sleeping?”

Ass wouldn’t drop the title, huh?

“Does it look like I’ve been sleeping?”

“Yes, you are clearly wide-eyed and well-rested," he muttered. "Did the sleeping elixirs help?” 

“It put me to sleep for an entire day,” Lavellan said. “Then I woke up feeling no better than the dead. Who ratted me out?”

“Your body would have welcomed the rest, I suspect, even if you awoke in misery,” he said, ignoring the question, and Lavellan was too exhausted to keep interrogating. “You’ll be happy to know that the five people you took with you to Crestwood all accosted me at some point after your return telling me to make you sleep.”

Lavellan raised a brow. “What, even Sera?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

Lavellan’s laugh was shaky, a tad too manic. “Good luck then. My blood is completely Antivan coffee at this point.”

Solas considered him for a second too long but Lavellan refused to fidget. He walked closer and turned his head to read the letter Lavellan had penned.

“Hm,” he said.

“What?”

“Inquisitor, read the letter. Tell me what’s wrong.”

What was he up to? Lavellan lifted the paper and read it to himself.

“I regretfully wish to offer my sincerest regrets at the regretful loss of your son…” Lavellan stared. Then, softly, said, “Oh.”

“Yes.”

He whimpered and revised the letters and all of them were of the same phenomenal quality. Which was to say, _trash_. His head fell in his hands. There went the last two hours of writing he’d done. Solas moved in his periphery.

Warm hands pried Lavellan’s away from his face.

“Come,” he said, voice soothing, lulling. “I will guide your dreams. Nightmares will not plague you this night.”

Lavellan made the mistake of looking up at Solas then, trapping himself in the intimacy of their sudden proximity. Solas must have had the same thought because he stilled. Unable to look away from each other. Solas parted his lips, meant to speak, but no sound came and it would be so easy to shatter the space and unseen barrier between them, to pull Solas close and―

“I can’t,” whispered Lavellan and it broke the moment between them. Couldn’t? Couldn’t what? He cleared his throat and Solas blinked as if clearing the fog in his head. “I can’t sleep,” Lavellan elaborated but he was sure that wasn’t the only reason. “There are so many things and I have to keep moving. I can’t. I can’t stay in the silence. I’m not fit to exist in stillness.”

Solas looked down at their joined hands. He let go. Lavellan’s fingers twitched at the sudden cold.

“Perhaps not, but rest is neither stillness nor silence. Rest is the water pulling back in preparation for a wave. You want to be at your best for those who depend on you?”

“Of course.”

“Then rest. For yourself.” He glanced at the letters. “And for them. Your raven has the right idea.”

“She’s not mine,” he mumbled. “I’ll set her free when she can fly again.”

Solas’ gaze softened and Lavellan’s throat shrivelled. Arguments with Solas, he could handle. Fights and ribs, he could handle. Rage, hatred, spite, sorrow, misery, Lavellan could do those when it came to Solas. But he had forgotten kindness. Soft, tender, cherished moments. Comfort and warmth.

It was so alien and yet so sought after.

“Sleep?” Solas tried again.

Lavellan gave the letters another look, then sighed. He was right. His sleep deprivation was becoming harmful, and it would do the Inquisition no good to lose their Inquisitor because he snoozed while fighting a wraith. Now _that_ would be mortifying. All the ridiculous events he'd lived through and then done in by a wraith.

“You’ll stop the nightmares?” he asked. Cursed how childlike he sounded.

Solas smiled. “Yes.” He stood and Lavellan made sure he didn’t disturb the raven before standing as well. “Let’s get you to your quarters.”

Lavellan shouldered his pack, one arm around the raven, but not before he paused in front of the fresco once more. Had it been the same in his past life? Or did Solas change aspects of it? 

What he would give to look upon it again with wonder untainted by heartache.

“Do you like it?” asked Solas.

“I love it,” he answered softly. _Is this how you say sorry?_

_Because if so, it’s not enough._

“I’m glad.”

Lavellan turned before his ribs could split from his heart’s attempt to ravage its way out of his chest, and followed Solas.

The Hall was empty, chandelier candles snuffed. The moonlight through the stained-glass windows dusted the stones with soft colours. Nostalgia coated Lavellan as they moved to the Keep and ascended to where his quarters were, and when they finally entered, the nostalgia suffocated him.

There it was. Glass doors and balconies and fireplace and the little corner with his table and bookshelves, the upper walkway, the bed, the mural on the upper wall. The first time he'd seen it, he thought he'd walked into the wrong room. Such space, all dedicated for one person, was a foreign concept to him.

Solas lit the fireplace with a wave of his hand. Lavellan raised a brow at the brazen display.

“I think we’re in the wrong room,” Lavellan joked to keep up appearances.

“These are your quarters.”

Lavellan found a small, upturned crate in the corner and pulled it out, placing it near the fireplace. He found a pile of unused sheets and stuffed one into the crate to make it comfortable and placed the sleeping raven into it. She woke when he put her down, but he ran his finger over her head to placate her and she went back to sleep.

When he stood, Solas was looking at him, gaze tender in the firelight.

Lavellan looked away under the pretence of scanning the bedroom and opened the glass doors, getting a face full of Skyhold’s nightly chill. He closed it quick with a breezy laugh.

“Solas, mountains.”

He smiled. “Yes. Mountains.”

“I can see even more up here than on the battlements.” Lavellan poked his head out again, mesmerised by the moonlight caressing the mountain’s trappings of snow. He’d missed this. “Solas, come look! See the stars? They’re reflecting on the frozen river,” he called before he could stop himself, always too eager to share the small beauties of the world with Solas. A habit he hadn't quite discarded. Lavellan would call out the beginnings of Solas' name whenever something fascinating had caught his attention, only for his voice to die and his delight to vanish once he recalled that nobody would answer.

But this time, there was an answer.

Solas stepped behind him, his warmth bleeding onto Lavellan’s back as he pulled the door open wider.

They stood there in silence, breaths fogging as they dwelled in the night.

“It’s beautiful,” Lavellan said, hand clutching the door tight. 

“Yes,” said Solas, voice almost a whisper.

Lavellan traced the pattern of a cluster of stars in an attempt to remain casual. Hoped Solas would assume Lavellan’s fingers trembled from the cold.

“Tenebrium, but we call it Bana’fal’ean,” he pointed out. The shadowed owl. “Or as I like to call it, more evidence that Tevinter took ancient elven things and slapped a new name on it and called it theirs!” Solas snorted behind him. And because he couldn’t resist, pointed at another and said, “Fenrir. The White Wolf. Possibly Fen’Harel.”

“Or an old Neromenian tale,” said Solas. "They say the white wolf escaped to the skies."

He resisted smiling. “Could be. But we’re trying to work on my ‘Tevinter thought Elvhen history was neat and was too uncreative to use their own’ theory.”

“It was likely more complicated than that.”

“Oh definitely. But right now all I can think of is, ‘Ooh, pretty!’ or ‘Oh look, stars’ or dead silence that I’m filling in with chatter.”

Solas wrangled him away from the door with a faint laugh and closed it. “Then let’s get you to bed.”

“Please, I beg you. I have been mothered extensively already at Crestwood and on the way back. Don’t you start too.”

“Perhaps you should listen. When many voices are in united agreement, they are probably on to something.”

“Many people think slavery is perfectly alright. Are they on to something?”

“The end of a sword perhaps,” muttered Solas and a startled chortle escaped Lavellan. Solas made him sit on the bed. Lavellan tried to toe off his boots but kept slipping and Solas got fed up and pulled them off for him with a sigh.

Lavellan grumbled. “Are you going to take my clothes off for me too?”

“There are faster ways to freeze to death, Mahanon.”

Warmth flickered in Lavellan’s chest. Like a fire fighting against the hand smothering it.

“You said my name,” he murmured, a touch triumphant.

Solas froze. “I am sorry. I overstepped―”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.” Lavellan unbuttoned his coat and folded it over his arms, tucking it under the adjacent pillow. He stood and took off his belt and its pouches, and draped it over the bed’s footboard.

With his back to Solas, it was a little easier getting his thoughts in order. Somewhat. His exhaustion had scrambled his usual coherence.

And yet, Solas still said, “Inquisitor,” and Lavellan’s shoulders slumped. “I meant to apologise. For what I said last week before you left.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lavellan mumbled. Too tired. It was no use anyway because Solas would keep calling him by his title. Now that he thought about it, Solas had barely called him by his name last time too.

“No,” said Solas. “What I said…”

Lavellan turned. “What else would you be?” he echoed dryly and Solas looked down, grimaced.

“You are more than Inquisitor or Herald,” he said. “You are not defined by what others have proclaimed you to be. To me, you’re…”

And Solas looked upon Lavellan with such a devastating sincerity that the space between them became too much yet not enough.

“To me, you change the world.”

Lavellan’s mouth dried, ribs splitting, splitting.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal,” he said, emotions thrown in tumult.

Solas shook his head, stepped closer, and yet the fissure opened wider between them.

“It is no pedestal, Inquisitor. Simply, I admire you. I respect you.”

“Then why do you keep such distance?”

Solas smiled again. “I am not distant now.” And true enough. The distance between them could be closed by a step, but they both knew that was not the distance Lavellan meant.

“Does it make you uncomfortable when I ask you to call me by name?” asked Lavellan. _Does it make me more real?_ “I understand when we’re in public. But now? It’s only us two and you still call me Inquisitor.”

“You are of higher rank than I.”

No, he wasn’t.

Lavellan stared at Solas. At this wolf in literal sheep’s clothing. His tunic was made of lambswool and either Solas knew and was having a silent laugh about it, or it was serendipitous.

“Is that it?” asked Lavellan. “Rank?” He sighed and shook his head. “No, never mind. Perhaps I’m being too incessant. You’re free to do as you like.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?”

Lavellan looked away and finally got into bed, pulled the covers up to his chin as if it could shield him. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Inquisitor―”

“So how do you plan to help the nightmares?” He stared resolutely at the flames, at the shadows it cast from his raven’s crate. It was silent for a lingering moment.

Then, “I had two methods in mind.” Solas clasped his hands behind his back. “I could either pull you into my dreams or I could visit your dream and teach you how to mould nightmares into something more pleasant in the future.”

So short-term versus long-term.

He didn’t want Solas poking around in his nightmares. Who knew what kind of visions from the past it would give and then where would they be?

“I don’t want anyone seeing my nightmares,” said Lavellan.

Solas nodded once. “Of course. Try to fall asleep. I will follow shortly.” He settled on the small couch tucked by the stairs without another word between them. Lavellan ignored the ache in his heart.

One step forward and two steps back with them.

He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Lavellan makes a feathery friend. 
> 
> After much deliberation, I replaced the iconic Haven-Fade scene with the next dream sequence because these two now have a changed dynamic and no way is Lavellan involving himself romantically with Solas at this point. Not as they are now. Too many issues they need to get sorted. Couldn't leave out the "I felt the whole world change" bit entirely though. Ouch.
> 
> Please ignore the muffled screaming from my room as I try to make sense of the Tempest spec.
> 
> Okay I'm sorry, I'm not done having Feelings(TM) about Two Hungry Blackbirds. Buckle up or skip, honestly I wouldn't hold it against you wahahaha. Okay, here're both versions of the chorus which I'm just in love with.
> 
> _If I could be over you when the sky starts falling  
>  Would you be happy under me? / Would you be smothered under me?  
> If I could be under you if the earth was burning  
> Could you be trusted over me? / Would you be crying over me?_
> 
> And that double meaning in the "Could you be trusted over me? / Would you be crying over me?" lines because it could be taken literally and figuratively and and and the sky starts falling line is just too good because the Veil falling and the Fade is the sky but also “If I could be over you”? As in get over them feelings-wise by the time things go to shit and then there’s the earth burning, I'm-- And who's singing to who? Doesn't matter. Breaks me either way.
> 
> And the verses have that tinge of missing the domesticity of their relationship and it's filled with soft interactions. And GOD the opening. "Lovers accustomed to tragedy"??? Yes?? Hit me with that shit??? And the ending verse starting with "Poetry tempered with tragedy" and I've been describing how they died at each other's hands as disgustingly poetic but also just a waste and a tragedy. "Tempted and pulled when you cry upon my sleeve"?? The image of that--? "I'm in the shade of the dogwood tree, not the one where you told your name to me" -- please, I'm already weak, cut that shit out. 
> 
> And and and-- "Two hungry blackbirds land nearby" - one is Solas, one is Lavellan. Then the final verse ends with "two flocks of blackbirds meet the air" - them with their armies, meeting the 'air', taking off for battle.
> 
> Catch me crying in the corner.
> 
> I promise I'm usually more eloquent than this. No, that's a lie. I'm just as incoherent when you speak to me in person. It's just such a lovely song and the guitar is simple but beautiful and the singer's voice is so calming.
> 
> Okay, I'm done. Got it out of my system.


	22. Stasis and evolution

_the intervals within pride―_

* * *

Lavellan beheld a beautiful precipice. The sky shifted colours, an opalescent shell restraining and yet bleeding into the Beyond, and the long drop before him arrayed in broken fractals of smoke.

“Where have you taken me?” he asked the sky.

“I’ve not taken you anywhere yet,” said the sky. No, not the sky. Lavellan turned.

A white wolf greeted him, sitting on its haunches, its fur absorbing yet radiating the opalescent lights of the sky. Constellations danced within its eyes — stars reflected on an icy sea. If Lavellan strained his ears, he knew he’d hear the ancient hymns laced within its presence and sing it back.

“That seems risky,” he said to the wolf regarding its form. Though he couldn’t be sure why. Why would it be risky for a wolf to come to him as a wolf?

“Riskier if I were to approach you as man.”

“Which are you?”

The wolf canted its head. “Neither.”

And Lavellan accepted it. Nodded as if he understood, which he did.

“I’ve seen you before,” said Lavellan.

“I roam the Beyond.”

“Are we in the Beyond?”

The wolf bared its teeth. Almost a grin but too unnatural.

“Where else?”

Where else? An ancient fortress dwelling in the mountains, a place where creation and destruction coexisted and orbited one another until they had formed an impermanent division, the symptom of hubris. Where stones wept with joy and sorrow in equal measure.

“Home,” said Lavellan.

“Do you have a home?”

“Do you?”

The wolf’s grin widened.

“I grow fonder of you by the minute,” admitted the wolf. “It would be wise for me to cease.”

“Are you wise?”

“Who is to say?”

Lavellan approached the wolf, watched it watch him, and sat cross-legged in front of it. He blinked up at it. Marvelled at the swirling constellations in the eyes observing him, at the brilliance of its fur, the formidable fangs of its maw. He reached for it without thinking.

The wolf stood, snarled, snapped its teeth.

He paused, hands lingering between them, the wolf’s breath colder than the depths of a glacial storm.

Lavellan tried again, slower, gentler. Held the wolf’s gaze.

The wolf was large, its head easily the size of his torso, but something in him knew that it could be bigger. The back of Lavellan's hand brushed over its whiskers and the wolf flinched, but it didn’t growl or retreat. Lavellan rested his hands on its cheeks. Reached further and buried his fingers in its soft, iridescent fur.

The wolf kept his gaze on Lavellan even as it lowered its head so he could reach more of it.

“You would dare to touch me?” the wolf asked.

Lavellan smiled. “You looked soft.”

“Soft?” it echoed. Its mouth did not move ― rather, its voice resonated in Lavellan’s mind.

“And warm.”

The wolf stared at him, befuddled. “You are quite strange. Do you seek to pat every wolf you see?”

“Only the ones who look like they want to be sought.” The wolf was warm beneath his hand. Lavellan frowned, familiar with those eyes. “I know you,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Who are you?”

“Fenrir.”

“Try again.”

The wolf laughed. Lavellan thought it a nice laugh.

“You would not welcome me if you knew,” it said. “You should fear me.”

“Why?”

The wolf barked, lunged and pinned Lavellan to the ground with its large front paw over his chest, claws pressing into skin. It bared its teeth once more, blue eyes reddening. Its brilliant white fur grew shaggy and blackened, dripping into heavy smoke. 

Lavellan stared back, unfazed.

“Do you fear me now?” it growled, voice reverbing from every direction, discordant. Black and viscous liquid dribbled from its teeth onto Lavellan. “You are small. Insignificant. I am large and powerful. I can snap your spine beneath my jaw.”

There was a name whispering in Lavellan’s subconscious, urging him. He _knew_ this wolf, could taste its name on his lips, on his tongue. He knew its name. Which was it?

“No,” Lavellan said.

“If I devour your heart, will you fear me then?”

“I think I’d be too dead to be fearing much of anything.”

The wolf paused, then snarled anew. “Clever tongue. It will not always save you.”

“Ah, but is it endearing me to you?”

It barked again and the viscous liquid covered Lavellan, becoming wisps of darkness. A coat of shadows. When he breathed, he tasted the winds carrying death after a terrible winter. Lavellan reached for the wolf again and rested a gentle hand on its snout, trailed them up back towards its cheek. The darkness bled onto his fingers and crawled up his arms.

“Why do you insist?” asked the wolf, ceasing its snarling. “The darkness is reaching you so why do you hold on?”

Lavellan’s left hand flared with sunlight.

“If I hold you close, if you do not pull away, I can give us light.”

“If I pull away?”

“The darkness will swallow us both.”

It leaned the slightest into his touch. “It will swallow us anyway.”

“It’s not a certainty.”

Its name settled in Lavellan’s mind, a smooth stone dropping into a lake and sending naught but one ripple.

“You cannot change this,” said the wolf.

And Lavellan burned in his resolve, burned at being told of what he couldn't do, burned and flared and blazed until the sunlight in his hand became the very sun itself.

The wolf started but Lavellan didn’t dare let go. Forced it to look him in the eye and said:

“Watch me, Fen’Harel.”

And the sun consumed them both.

* * *

Lavellan pitched forward and somebody grabbed and pulled him back.

Steep, snow-covered slopes awaited below. He glanced up at the familiar mountains beyond, turned misty by the thin clouds. The sun’s rays pierced through and scattered its golden threads of light like a fisherman’s reel, gripping them in its warmth. It was dawn and the sun stood frozen in the sky.

He stepped back from the balcony’s edge.

Balcony?

Lavellan turned once whoever had grabbed him let go and met Solas’ solemn gaze.

“Solas,” he greeted, looking around. “Where…?”

“Do you not recognise where we are?”

He looked back out over the familiar mountains, the balcony they stood on, crouched and examined the railings. They were thin, arborescent, more aesthetic than practical. Mosaic floors. He turned and considered the building before him with its arched doorways and translucent curtains and smooth blocks of stone.

“Skyhold,” he breathed.

This was not the Skyhold he knew. This was the Skyhold of years past, the ancient Skyhold which had housed the Dread Wolf.

Solas smiled.

Lavellan's breath left him. _This_ was how it had been in the days of Elvhenan. Lavellan entered what was once his quarters. Or what would become his quarters?

Gone was the fireplace, replaced by thin columns of crystal braided around each other as it stretched towards the ceiling and dispersed like the branches of a mighty tree, emanating a soft chromatic glow, emitting a warmth that no fireplace could ever provide. This room had more windows. Allowed light to flood it.

There was a mural on the ceiling of a stylised eclipse and a chart of the stars around it. He gasped in delight when the sun’s rays rotated and the moon pulsed with unearthly shadow, the stars revolving around them, the constellations occasionally lighting with their connecting lines. 

The upper walkway housed shelves brimming with tomes and scrolls and ornaments. Ordered and tidy.

This room was golden and luminous and bright and still. So still that even the motes of dust drifting in the sunlight seemed frozen. The remnants of pure, raw magic shivered in the very air, so palpable that he could taste it when he licked his lips, could feel it with every breath as his lungs filled and his chest rose.

A large bed rested where his usually did. Elaborate carvings on its frame, threads of crystal embedded into it.

Lavellan let out a soft breath.

Solas watched him in silence, let him drink the sight in. Was this a test?

He noted the table in the same corner where his was. The only messy part of the room. He picked up a paper from the table but the contents were illegible, swirling in its dreaming state.

“Why here?” Lavellan asked.

Solas observed the chromatic glow of the crystal tree and placed a hand upon it, gaze wistful.

“To see it as it once was,” said Solas.

Lavellan looked out the balcony once more, tying to make sense of the rest of Skyhold, but they were hazy, indistinct. He could just make out the spires.

“It’s beautiful,” said Lavellan and watched the shifting mural above him. “I wonder if that was done by hand.”

“It was,” said Solas. “The ancient elves occasionally used magic, but they were mostly for ease of process. Their crafts are a direct result of their skill.”

“Whoever painted it is spectacular then.” Lavellan wagered it was Solas. “Just like your fresco in the rotunda.”

Solas looked away, smiling faintly as he did whenever Lavellan used to compliment his art. “You are too kind.”

“Never. I speak the truth. It must take a lot of skill and patience.” When he laid his eyes on the constellation of the White Wolf, he frowned again. What was that dream? Before this? He faced Solas, uncertain. “This is your dream, right?”

“Yes.”

Lavellan studied him, searched for any signs of uneasiness. “But I had a dream before this.”

“What of?” His face remained aloof.

 _Him_! As Fen’Harel. “Did you not see it?”

“You must have fallen into your dreams before me. In the time it took for me to find you and pull you into my dream, the dream was entirely yours.” He stared at Lavellan, too intent, and Lavellan was doubly sure they'd shared the dream. “Was it a nightmare?”

Lavellan stared back, unwavering as he said, “No.”

“I see.” Solas turned and walked towards the bed, examining the carvings on the post. Lavellan suppressed his smile. Look at him trying to act casual after trying to spook Lavellan with his lupine form and disembodied voice and unnecessary snarling. Solas perched himself on the edge of the bed. The soft, comfortable-looking bed.

Lavellan sat on it. Gasped. Threw himself back and sank into its embrace.

“Oh this is nice,” he sighed. “Can you fall asleep in a dream?”

“You would wake.”

He grumbled.

For a while, they remained in silence and Lavellan watched the constellations above, watched the sun’s rotation and the moon’s pulsing shadow.

Until Solas asked, “Do you wish you were here rather than the Skyhold of now?”

Lavellan hummed. Said, “No.”

Solas turned to him with a frown. “No?”

“No.”

“You do not believe this to be better?”

“Why? Because it’s prettier?”

Solas sighed. “Besides the aesthetics, I meant that because this is… This is a remnant of what was lost. Do you not wish to restore it?”

“I don’t think one is better than the other,” he said. “This is wonderful. Skyhold is wonderful too. The magnitude of their wonder is different though, I will admit. I can almost taste the magic in the air here, and these are only echoes.” He closed his eyes. “But Skyhold is important too. As it is now. A place of shelter, hope. For those in need of help, for those who are lost. It can't be the world, but it can be a place of rest, hopefully.”

“I forget your idealism,” said Solas and Lavellan discerned the hint of moroseness in his tone.

He opened his eyes and sat up, turning on the bed to face Solas.

“Thank you for showing me this,” said Lavellan. “Don’t take this as me brushing it aside. This is…” The crystal tree was warm on his skin and within his heart. “This is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

Solas frowned. “It is only a bedroom.”

“No, this is history.” And Solas’ history too. This room must have been his. “It’s been changed so much. After seeing things such as this, I can understand why the present may feel stifling and dull for you.”

Solas regarded him, features relaxing. “Perhaps. But I will cede one point to you. There is a different wonder in the present.”

“Oh, you agree with me? The world must be ending.”

“I suspect, Inquisitor, that it is our disagreement which will cause the world to end.”

And Lavellan gave him a sad smile. “I shall seek to prove you wrong then.” He averted his gaze before the rending memories could resurface and instead focused on the painted constellations. “Do you have any more stories?”

“Is there anything in particular you wish to hear?”

Lavellan lay back down so he wouldn’t have to look at him. The stars made a full revolution around the eclipse.

“I want a truth,” said Lavellan. “A painful truth.”

Solas gave him a peculiar look. “An interesting request,” he said. “May I ask why?”

_Because I tire of painful lies._

“I want to breathe,” said Lavellan.

“Have you always been this enigmatic?” asked Solas with a smile. Lavellan gave a feeble one back.

“No,” he said. “So? What painful truth will you impart?”

He stayed quiet in thought, eyes trained on something hazy in the distance.

Then, “There was a woman who found herself in a foreign land,” Solas began. His voice took on its lyrical quality once more and Lavellan found himself enraptured already, cursed himself for being so weak. “A land where the rules she had been accustomed to differed. Most would flee in fear of such an unknown. But instead, she saw endless potential.”

The bedroom shifted, dropping like a curtain of smoke, and Lavellan sat up in alarm. Solas stilled him with a raise of his hand and a reassuring smile, before he gestured for him to watch. Lavellan spied the green backdrop of the Fade before the smoke rearranged and coalesced, gained colour, gained form — props on a stage. The bed they were on remained the only unchanged thing.

From the smoke rose an elfin shape. Wispy and vague with indiscernible features but Lavellan would recognise Mythal’s crown from anywhere.

“We might attract demons,” said Lavellan.

“No, not while I’m here,” said Solas. A masculine form approached Mythal, held out his hand which she took, and they engaged in a dance. Elgar’nan. “The one who called her to that land razed whatever he touched in his blind fury and short temper.” Elgar’nan flared and Lavellan squinted, turned away from the searing light. “But she would still him. Rein in his temperament and he would listen for he loved her and she him. They showed that it was possible to live in that foreign land, and many followed. Soon, they remade the land.”

Humble towers erupted from the earth and clawed for the skies while fragments of stone ascended and settled within the clouds. Coils of light glimmered and threaded across those floating isles.

“And their love bore them what you might consider a family,” said Solas. Four more elfin shapes materialised beside them. One held a sprig of herbs, another a bow, the last two held matching staves. “But their prosperity could not last long. What small life they had built was overturned by the very ground they had built upon. The Earth raged.”

The towers crumbled, the floating isles fell, and a wave of smoke washed over them. Carried with it the faint sounds of screams.

“They led the fight against the Earth.” A crowd of elves raised their weapons and there was a faint chorus of rallying cries by Lavellan’s ear. Six of the nine Evanuris stepped forward, golden, while the rest remained grey smoke. “They were victorious. Tamed and defeated it, built upon its carcass in triumph.”

Golden spires twisted upwards, and Lavellan grimaced at the visceral crack of bones and snap of tendons.

“But war and its aftermath are never pleasant,” said Solas. “Uncertainties and fear fester, and fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command.” Lavellan clutched the sheets at the verbatim delivery, his Anchor flaring in response. He tucked it under his leg before it could catch Solas’ attention. “Leaders become respected elders. Then kings.” His expression darkened as crowns settled upon the Evanuris’ heads.

“And finally…” The crowns flared into jagged halos and the People knelt. “Gods.”

Lavellan noted there were now seven Evanuris present when there had been six. June wasn’t part of the family, then. Ghilan’nain and Fen’Harel were absent since they'd ascended much later.

“But you yourself said power corrupts,” continued Solas. Chains swept in and constricted the spires. “Given time, the adulation gave rise to their vanity and greed.” A line of elves shuffled past, heads hung, chains connecting them. Bile rose in his throat.

A painful truth he had asked for, and a painful truth Solas had given. Why this story? Was Solas testing him? If so, what was the test? And why?

“And soon, in-fighting tore them apart.” The Evanuris turned on one another save for Mythal who raised her arms in placation, promoted peace, but it was not to be. “It was a slow-acting poison, a leeching corruption.” The golden spires blackened. “Until…”

The rest of the Evanuris turned on Mythal and the smoky figures overwhelmed her golden form, turned her red, then black, and Lavellan’s eyes widened as she shrieked. Solas hung his head.

A wolf howled.

The scene before Lavellan crumbled, became a hurricane of shadows and smoke and light. Lavellan shielded his eyes as the smoke and shadows whipped around them, phantom winds roaring in his ears. A thunderous crack, a chorus of despairing screams—

Dissipated like mist beneath an afternoon sun.

Lavellan whipped his head up, breaths rapid. They were back in the bedroom.

He fixed Solas an incredulous stare. Why would he— Why would he tell Lavellan all this so early? Did he do something wrong? Something right? Did he tip Solas off?

“That was the Evanuris,” said Lavellan.

“Yes.”

“They turned on Mythal.”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Lavellan scrutinised him, did his best to determine what was going through his mind, but he never could read Solas when it mattered.

“Why tell me this?” he asked.

“You wanted a painful truth,” said Solas.

“I meant why this, specifically?” He was unsure what the appropriate reaction was. How did he react when he first became disillusioned about the Evanuris? Was it a gradual process?

“You wanted to breathe,” Solas said. “The first drawing of breath after submersion is always a gasp, a painful inhalation.”

Lavellan scowled. “Oh, and I suppose you think this is a gift you’ve imparted upon me?”

“No, lethallin,” he murmured, gaze both steely and sorrowful as he faced Lavellan. “Now you share my curse. Forgive me. I do not know why this is the story I chose to tell but I suppose misery truly enjoys company.” 

Lavellan stared down at his hands — the Anchor no longer flaring — mind whirring, and yet he wasn’t sure what his thoughts were. Lavellan sighed and closed his eyes. Felt Solas’ heavy and anticipatory stare, awaiting Lavellan’s response. What was he looking for?

“How long have you known?” asked Lavellan, opening his eyes after he'd calmed his thoughts.

Solas stared out the window. “Long enough.”

“I can see now why the Dalish would have yelled at you,” said Lavellan with a wry smile and Solas’ expression soured. He wasn’t sure why Solas would show him this, why he would risk it, even if Lavellan had asked for it. “It must have been heavy, carrying that, knowing that, and not being believed.”

He frowned, casting Lavellan a suspicious look. “You… do not think I am lying?”

“No.”

“No?” It was nice being the one to throw Solas into emotional turmoil and confusion for once.

“I asked for a painful truth. Why would I get upset when you go ahead and do that?”

“I showed you something which challenges and upends what you have believed your whole life,” said Solas, bewildered.

“Big deal, the Fade crapped me out,” he grumbled.

“You are alarmingly unconcerned about this.”

Lavellan rubbed his face. “It’s not that I’m unconcerned.” He was, in fact, _very_ concerned about this sudden turn of events. Just not for the reasons Solas thought. Count on him to turn things unpredictable and messy for Lavellan. “Do you _want_ me to yell at you? Accuse you of feeding me lies and desecrating the sanctity of our bright and glorious elven history?”

“It would not be out of place,” he muttered. And yet that wasn’t what happened and Solas looked like he wasn’t sure what to do about this bizarre circumstance too. It clicked.

 _Oh_.

Solas _wanted_ Lavellan to yell at him. He had dropped the uncomfortable truth upon Lavellan to anger him and push Solas away and Solas would then have his relieving confirmation that nobody would ever listen.

So he could pull away.

“I’m not going to yell at or accuse you,” said Lavellan. “I trust you wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

“No?” he asked. “Be very careful, Inquisitor. Betrayal can only come from those you trust.”

He smiled sadly at Solas, heart twisting into knots as he said, “I know.” Lavellan looked away and stared at the unassuming marble tiles of the bedroom, almost expected smoke to rise and play out Mythal’s murder over and over. “This… changes a few things,” mumbled Lavellan to himself. Solas’ lost yet curious look fell upon him.

“Yes,” he murmured, brows drawing. “It does.”

Meant completely different things, the both of them.

Solas relaxed. “I retract my previous statement. You do seem shaken.”

And Lavellan laughed without humour.

“Do you know what scares me most about that?” he asked. “I’m in a position of power. I don’t want to end up like that.” He hugged himself, looked up at Solas, almost pleading. “I don’t want to become greedy or vain or tyrannical or uncaring.”

Solas’ gaze saddened. “I suppose we’ll see what kind of hero and leader you become.” He turned his face away. “And whether history will remember you accurately.”

* * *

The morning was overcast when he awoke and Solas was already gone.

It hit Lavellan, for a terrifying, dizzying moment, that this room was indeed dull compared to the one of his dreams and something intrinsic within him _yearned_. Yearned for a lost state. A state he had never had and was thus not his to lose. He stared at the ceiling and missed the shifting eclipse and rotating constellations.

Well, he was more awake now. The most rested he’d ever been in… a frightening length of time.

It must be late because the rest of Skyhold was already bustling. Lavellan observed them from his balcony, picking apart familiar figures, before he got himself dressed for the day.

The raven squawked in her crate and Lavellan chuckled.

“I’m coming,” he said and picked her up. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

His stomach rumbled.

“Make that two.”

There was a plate of food already on the table. Still warm. A note rested beside it, written in Solas’ hand, and all it said was: _Eat_.

Lavellan’s lips twitched and he ate, gave his raven a few grains.

Solas wasn’t in the rotunda when Lavellan swung by. If he lingered there for longer than necessary, staring up at the mural and wondering what it could have been if allowed to move, nobody was around to call him out on it.

The day went as such: picked up his alchemically-treated armour and resumed training with Kihm, followed up with Leliana about Alexius’ information about the leader of the Venatori, Calpernia, followed up with Cullen about the Red Templars and a fellow called Samson, paced and fretted about his clan, paced and fretted about the Inquisition, paced and fretted about Solas, paced and fretted about everything.

Lavellan threw himself into more work to keep his mind off it. Finished the letters of condolences and asked Josephine to double check that he wrote them alright.

Still no signs of Solas.

By dusk, Lavellan finished helping with repairs in the rear bailey. The builders and workers ceased for the day and most retreated to the tavern while Lavellan retreated to a corner, sitting upon the pile of stones from one of the collapsed walls. He regarded the rear bailey. The builders wanted to stay true to it as much as possible either out of respect for the architecture, for the Elvhen, for their Inquisitor, or a combination of those.

As close as they could, anyway. They didn’t exactly have the magic to sustain blocks of stone levitating in complex patterns.

The raven perched herself on his shoulders.

“I should really call you something else,” he said to her. “Can’t keep calling you the raven. Well, I can, but that’s kind of sad.”

She blinked at him, tilted her head, opened her beak and said, “Lavellan.”

“I can’t call you Lavellan, that’s my clan name.”

“Inquisitor.”

“Sure, why not? You can be Inquisitor and I can rest in peace.”

It squawked at him and pecked his neck.

“Ow,” he grunted. “Is that how you’re going to deliver judgement? Peck them?”

“Peck them?” she mimicked.

“I see it now. The mighty raven of terror, swooping to peck people in the eye.”

“Peck them.”

“What a useful skill. I’ve never wanted to be a bird more than I do now.”

Lavellan stood and stretched. Wrinkled his face. He stank. The communal baths were in the residential areas, but that was also under repairs. The archivists were still buzzing over the network of plumbing beneath them which drew water from underground sources, but they did manage to get water running back through the castle. Solas had helped, apparently.

Of course he had. He knew how the place worked.

Lavellan could draw his own bath in his quarters in the meantime. On the way back, he swung by the rotunda a final time, tried to catch Solas there.

He was there, this time, working on his second fresco. Lavellan leaned against the doorway and watched as Solas took a step back and considered the patch he was working on. 

Solas must have decided that was all for today because he packed up and only noticed Lavellan after he was already drying his hands from the wash basin.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted. Lavellan suppressed another annoyed expression at the address. Even in the dream, the bastard had refused to call him by name. “My apologies, I did not realise you were present.”

“That was rather the point,” said Lavellan and pushed off the wall. “Done for today?”

“I’ve been busy,” he said. “That’s what happens apparently when you’ve been put in charge of an entire organisation.”

Solas draped his towel over the rung of the basin stand. “If you require my help again tonight, I am happy to provide it.”

“Do you think…” He hesitated. Sighed. “Do you think I can sleep dreamlessly tonight? Without waking up like an undead. Lucid dreaming is much better than nightmares for sure, but I’d like to stop thinking for a while. Dwarven-style sleeping,” he said and attempted a grin although it felt more like a grimace.

Solas frowned. “The Anchor ties you strongly to the Fade but I will see what I can do.”

Lavellan nodded. “Thank you. For that and for last night. I think that was the first full night’s rest I’ve had in… a while.”

“You remain unfazed by what I have revealed last night?” asked Solas.

“I wouldn’t call it unfazed.” Lavellan shrugged his shoulder once the raven started slipping and helped her shuffle higher. She gave a short caw of gratitude. “But I’m not mad at you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

And Solas frowned as if Lavellan was the talking raven. “You are a puzzle, Inquisitor.”

“As are you.”

“Hardly,” said Solas. “I have been transparent so far. It is you who evades questions or gives vague answers.”

They stared at one another in mutual intrigue. Lavellan had thought himself ready for Solas and whatever he would throw Lavellan’s way, but he should learn by now that nothing ever went according to plan.

“Good luck trying to solve something that isn’t a puzzle in the first place,” said Lavellan. “I did that once. Very embarrassing. I was seven then though, so it could still pass off as endearing.”

“I’m certain it was,” said Solas with a small smile and Lavellan couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm. He busied himself with cleaning the brushes and Lavellan watched his back.

“You wanted me to be angry, didn’t you?” he asked.

Solas stopped for a second, but no longer.

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

“Why?”

“It was safer that way,” he murmured, and the silence stretched between them after the response. Even the raven shifted in discomfort. Or maybe she just wanted to stop herself from slipping again.

“Who’s giving vague answers now?” Lavellan grumbled and shook his head. “Alright, I’m going to go and get myself washed.” He looked at the raven and hummed. “And this one needs to get her wrapping changed because she couldn’t leave the dirt well enough alone.”

She bit a lock of his hair and tugged.

“Watch it, bird, I’ll roast you.”

She cawed. He entertained that it sounded disapproving.

“Threatening birds now, are we?” asked Solas dryly.

“She pulled my hair.”

“Then she has done us all a favour.” He turned and stared, pressed his lips in thought. “Still, how fitting that you befriend a raven.”

“Why’s that?”

Solas’ gaze traced his face, specifically, the vallaslin, and he turned away with a bitter twist to his lips.

“You bear Dirthamen’s mark.”

Lavellan smiled. “Would you like to know why I picked it?”

Solas frowned at him, nodded tentatively, and Lavellan’s smile turned deprecating.

“Loyalty to family.”

A beat passed before a surprised huff of laughter escaped Solas, though it was not unkind.

“The world adores its terrible irony, it seems.”

And Lavellan regarded Solas, considered this entire situation, and agreed with a cruel laugh.

“That or it’s a sadist ass.”

“It could very well be both.”

Lavellan shook his head, laughter waning, and he should leave now before the humour morphed into something unfavourable which would have him bawling on Solas once again. Creators, he was sick of crying. Everything would clog and he wouldn’t even feel satisfied after it.

“Do you need to be nearby to stop me from dreaming?” asked Lavellan.

“Momentarily,” he said.

He nodded. “I’ll leave the door unlocked then.” Lavellan fled before Solas could answer. By the time he finished bathing and changed the raven’s wrapping, exhaustion had caught up. The raven slept in her crate while Lavellan pushed through and attempted to sort through some paperwork, but he inevitably fell asleep on his table.

Somebody woke him later and shepherded him to the bed but he was half-asleep and everything was hazy.

True to his word, Solas ensured Lavellan slept dreamlessly.

* * *

The weeks passed. Still no response from his clan, so he busied himself with Inquisition-related matters and training with Kihm before he could pull all his hair out from worry. His etiquette lessons also began. Not that he didn't already know most of it, but he had to pretend anyway.

Solas still helped Lavellan’s nightmares though he never visited his quarters again which was probably for the best. They talked and travelled in dreams. Discussed anything and everything under the sun. No more life-changing truths dropped on him though, thank the gods.

Lavellan also finished carving the second wolf and was now working on the third, made of the same light-coloured wood.

The raven healed in that time and Laina gave her the clear. She flew spectacularly. Lavellan had been somewhat hesitant to part with her, but halfway through the day after letting her go, the raven returned. He could tell it was her by how often she cawed, “Lavellan rest.”

So. He had a pet raven now.

She'd mind her own business most times, but she'd always come back. Sometimes she’d return with something shiny and he’d hear of someone losing an item, and he’d drag her back to return the item, embarrassed, apologising profusely to the owners.

If she wasn’t stealing, she was harrassing the horses or mimicking voices to fool the inhabitants of Skyhold.

Lavellan had to do an awful lot of apologising.

Varric thought it was the funniest fucking thing, second only to Cassandra’s reaction when he finally gave her the continuation of Swords and Shields.

And life went on in Skyhold. Holes in walls mended, more areas opened for residency, more of the faithful came for shelter or for a pilgrimage, the injured recovered and those who couldn’t passed away in relative peace thanks to a spirit of Compassion. Solas’ frescoes grew. Lavellan asked for asters for the garden and planted them with Blackwall.

Madame Vivienne tutted at him at one point after meeting one too many dignitaries in his tunic, and shoved him into a tasteful golden military uniform.

“You must stand out if you are to receive dignitaries and the faithful, darling. You are the Inquisitor.”

“Well, it does cut out a nice silhouette.”

“I know, dear. I know.”

They went to the Fallow Mire for a few days to retrieve the soldiers the Avvar held hostage and came back to their hold being battered by rams. He armed and exiled the Avvar chief to Tevinter with a small smile to himself.

It was after a consultation with Leliana regarding Calpernia that she addressed the raven on his shoulder.

“She seems restless,” she noted. “I’ve heard the most curious events around Skyhold.”

“If you heard of turnips going missing and being shoved into fire, that’s not her. It’s Cole.”

“There is a logic to Cole’s workings.” She smiled at the raven. “She, however, is an agent of mayhem.”

The raven opened her beak and said, “Veredhe.”

Lavellan stared at the raven.

“What did she say?” asked Leliana.

“It was the elven word for mayhem,” he said in mild surprise. “She knows Elvish? No, scratch that. She understood it in Common and translated it.”

“They _are_ quite intelligent. Perhaps she’s picked it up from you or Solas.”

“Maybe,” he said, unconvinced. “Or learned it from outside. Maybe she travelled with a Dalish clan for a while.”

“It’s possible.” Leliana held out her arm and the raven tilted her head in curiosity, then cawed and shuffled closer to him. Leliana chuckled. “She’s attached to you. Good. You can use this.”

“Ever so pragmatic, spymaster.” He couldn’t help but smile though. It was always a good day when an animal enjoyed and preferred your company. “What were you thinking?”

“Something to benefit you both, hopefully. She could assist you during your battles.”

He frowned. “That may hurt her.”

“No, not directly. A watch, perhaps. Somebody to scout the terrain or warn you of impending danger. You can teach her certain signals or words. It would stimulate her mentally and allow her to fly as she wishes, while also serving as your eyes and ears. Does she listen to you?”

Lavellan stared at the raven in consideration, held up a hand, and she hopped on to it. “I scold her when she takes things and tell her to return them. Does that count?”

Leliana smiled. “I would count it. Could you tell her to fetch or deliver something?”

His gaze fell on the sweet rocks Leliana had on her table. He gestured to them and asked, “May I?”

She nodded and he took one.

“Hey, clever girl,” he said and she looked at him, blinked. He held up the candy and looked around, eyes locking onto Solas who was sitting at the table. “Can you fly down and give this to Solas? Bald head, can’t miss him.” 

She cawed, took the candy in her beak, and flew down. He shared an amazed look with Leliana.

The raven landed on the table and dropped the candy, cawed once, and took off back to Lavellan. He held his arm out and she perched on it.

Solas looked up, wide-eyed, and Lavellan grinned. Waved.

He looked back at Leliana and her pleased expression.

“Well, Inquisitor,” she said, “I believe we can work with this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan: I'm going to change things  
> Things: *changes*  
> Lavellan: -surprised pikachu face-
> 
> Anyway, Solas really out here trying to scare Lavellan away and can't figure out why it's not working. Meanwhile, Lavellan just laughs jadedly in "been there done that".
> 
> I see the raven has been met with either suspicion and/or endearment, to which I say, "Caw caw". (Ravens are absolute bastards of a bird sometimes and I love them for it).


	23. On the shores of new choice

_lead the charge through voice―_

* * *

“You should really name her,” said Blackwall after they finished planting more flowers for the garden. They rested on the bench beside the gazebo and Solas joined them after planting the last of the asters with a faint smile. His raven scrounged the dirt for worms.

“I’m terrible at naming,” he admitted. Lavellan had named his halla _Halhal_ after all. Would have been cute. If he wasn’t sixteen when he'd named her. And when he was two, his mother had asked him what he wanted to name his baby sister and he'd babbled, “Demon baby,” apparently so, uh… Yeah. He was bad at names.

“How do you garner her attention during training?” asked Solas.

“I whistle,” he said. The first three notes of his mother’s lullaby.

“Poor bird,” said Blackwall. “Such an elegant looking thing and you can’t even give her a name? She deserves the best.”

“We’re talking about the bird, right?” asked Lavellan.

“Who else?”

Lavellan grinned. “You tell me, lover boy.” He lowered his voice to mimic Blackwall’s deep pitch. “ _You look exquisite in whatever you wear, my lady_.”

Blackwall gave him a long, hard look, face reddening.

Then said, “You are a terrible man,” and stalked off. He even made a valiant attempt of trying to hide into his beard.

Lavellan threw his head back and laughed. “I’m an elf!” he called out and received a rude hand gesture in return. He noticed Solas smiling at him once his chuckles waned. Lavellan raised a brow, still grinning. “What?”

“You _are_ terrible,” he said.

“Look, everyone here is stressed enough.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. The cold wouldn’t kick in yet. “It helps to have a certain someone who brightens your day. Even if you just see them in the distance. Blackwall has a very puppy-dog look about him when he moons over Josephine. It’s a little adorable.”

“You _would_ say that,” murmured Solas.

Lavellan opened his eyes and frowned at Solas. “What do you mean?”

“Simply that you have consistencies.”

“Consistencies?”

Solas smiled at him, his look indecipherable when he said, “Yes.” Without another word, he stood and dusted off his dirt-caked hands. “If you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor. I need a wash.”

“Oh.” Lavellan blinked. “Sure. See you around.”

Speaking of cleaning, Lavellan stood and freshened up in his quarters before returning to the front bailey, his raven perching herself on his shoulders. A roar from the training grounds caught his attention and Lavellan looked in time to see Krem charge at Bull with his shield. They struggled, but Bull threw him down. They kept at it for a while before Lavellan approached in curiosity.

“What was that?” he overhead Bull asking Krem. “Come on, I’m working my ass off trying to teach you this.”

Krem held his shield up again. “You’ve still got plenty of ass left, Chief,” he snorted before he noticed Lavellan's approach. He straightened to attention. “Your Worship!” he greeted and smiled at the raven. “Troublemaker.”

“Mercy!” said Bull. “There you are. I was going to go look for you after this.”

Lavellan glanced at Krem who looked ready to collapse on the grass.

“What’re you two up to?”

Bull grunted. “Trying to teach him how to defend against a shield bash. Also, I needed to hit something.”

“Ever heard of a training dummy, Chief? I heard they’re good for hitting,” grumbled Krem.

“A training dummy might actually stand its ground and wouldn’t fly off like a sack of onions.”

“Hey, onions are heavy.”

And Bull gave him a pitying look. “What am I even paying you for?”

“Technically, I’m doing the paying,” said Lavellan, smiling. “Mind sharing why you need to hit something?”

Bull’s expressions were usually controlled, precise, revealing everything yet nothing. A true and wonderful liar. But no matter how well-hidden, his unease rolled off him in waves.

“I received a letter from my Ben-Hassrath contacts. Already verified it with Red, don’t worry.”

Lavellan's smile shifted into a scowl. Had this happened before? “I thought this was a one-way communication.”

“Makes two of us.” He adjusted the shield strap on his arm. “But you’re going to want to hear this out. The Qunari expressed their interest in allying with the Inquisition.”

He stared at Bull, wracked his memories, and concluded that _no_ , this hadn't happened before. An alliance?

Lavellan looked down and muttered, “Well this is new.” First Solas’ behaviour and now this?

“I know right?”

Still, he had lingering suspicions regarding the Qunari and he may have formed an uneasy partnership with them while hunting Solas down, but it was hardly an alliance and he'd hated every second of it. He suspected the feeling was mutual.

“That sounds powerful,” he said. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m wary. That sounds too good to be true.”

“I’d agree with you. Usually, that’s how these things go, but they would never identify themselves like this. They _really_ hate Corypheus and his Venatori. Red lyrium? Even worse. The Qunari have never made a full-blown alliance with a foreign power like this. This would be a big step.”

Lavellan tasted the air within the Darvaarad. Bull had turned on them so quick, without a care, as if it was all a party trick. _And out this hat, I will pull out a massive heaping of betrayal! You’re welcome._

His gaze flicked to Krem in silent question.

Krem grinned in answer. “Apparently there’s a shipping operation on the Storm Coast. Red lyrium. They want to hit it together. Even talked about bringing in their dreadnoughts.”

Bull held his shield up again and Krem mirrored him.

“Always wanted to see those big warships in action,” he mused before Bull slammed into him and sent him sprawling on his ass. Lavellan winced.

“Did you see _that_?” he asked Krem. “Go get some water.”

Krem grumbled as he walked away. Bull turned back to Lavellan and his uneasiness didn’t soothe Lavellan any.

“They’re worried about tipping the smugglers so it’s going to be a small force. You, me, my Chargers, and maybe some back-up. This is going to do a lot of good, Mercy. Think about it. An alliance would provide you with naval power, more Ben-Hassrath reports, Qunari soldiers pointed at the Venatori…” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself too.

Lavellan tilted his head. “You’re looking very apprehensive about this.”

“Oh. No, it’s just…” He chuckled softly. “I’m used to them being… over _there_. It’s been a while. So? What do you say?”

Something curdled in his gut. This was new. Paranoia reared its head. What if he went to this alliance and then something awful happened and Bull would choose the Qun over them again?

Maybe not. Maybe his worry was unfounded.

_“Nothing personal, bas.”_

Or quite founded.

But if this _was_ a success… He wasn’t blind to the Qunari’s military might. It may not be as great as it once was or as they claim, but it was still a significant force. This could make the fight against Corypheus much easier.

“Alright, Bull,” he said. “This makes me a little uneasy but… alright. Let’s hear them out.”

* * *

Lavellan didn’t think his choice of backup through.

The _Tevinter_ mage and _Solas_? Really? He would like to question past Lavellan and politely demand, "What the fuck?" But he suspected the only answer he would get was a blank, exhausted look.

At least they were all in a sour mood. Besides the Chargers who were eager to see the dreadnoughts.

“You seem troubled,” said Solas as they moved through the Storm Coast to the meeting point. “For something that is of supposedly great import should it be successful.” Lavellan wasn’t deaf to the bitterness in his tone.

“I have little faith in the Qunari,” he admitted.

“Because of your friend.”

Lavellan blinked, surprised he remembered. “Yes. No. Not quite. I don’t know. It seems unfair to judge a whole group based on one person’s choice.”

“The Qun offers no choices,” said Solas. “Your friend was a direct result of the Qun’s indoctrination. There is little room for individual thought and will within it.”

He grimaced. “Don’t let Bull hear you say that.”

“The Iron Bull and I have argued about this at length before. I will not hesitate to do it again.”

Lavellan snorted. Yes, argued at length. Quite atmospheric during their little trek to and through the Fallow Mire. Lavellan almost pushed somebody into the water. That would have net _less_ undead as compared to the amount they had attracted from the sheer volume of their argument. Not that Bull and Solas were the type to raise their voices, but the Mire had been so still and quiet that anything above a whisper may as well have been a crack of thunder.

They walked in silence for another few metres before Solas asked, “What do you think of the Qun, Inquisitor?”

“Controversial, given the company we’re about to meet,” he said. “There’s a right time and place for my thoughts.”

They arrived at the rendezvous point where a large tent had been set up with supplies and maps, but no Qunari contact in sight. Lavellan watched the skies. His raven was somewhere. He’d worry that she might fly off and never return but she had had plenty of opportunities before. She wouldn’t now.

“That’s weird,” said Bull, looking around. “The contact should be here.”

“He is."

The contact who walked out was no Qunari. Rather, an elf. Lavellan had met plenty of elves who followed the Qun before, and every time, it had always caught him by surprise or it had made him uneasy, but he held his tongue. It wasn’t his place to question other people’s decisions when caught between a rock and a hard place. He understood the appeal of the Qun.

“Gatt!” Bull greeted and some of the disquiet which had plagued him for the entirety of the trip vanished. “Mer― Ah, _boss_ —” an unpleasant crawl rippled over his skin— “this is Gatt. We worked together in Seheron.”

Gatt smiled and nodded at Lavellan who did his best to hide his distress.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Inquisitor. Hissrad’s reports sang high praises of you and the work you’ve done.”

“Who?” Lavellan asked, wasn’t sure how to feel about Bull’s supposed high praises of him.

“Oh, that’d be, uh, me,” said Bull and Lavellan’s brows raised. He had a name besides the Iron Bull?

“I thought you didn’t have names under the Qun?”

“Ah, yeah, we don’t. It’s a title,” said Bull. “Because I was assigned to secret work. You can translate it as ‘Keeper of Illusions’ or―”

“Liar,” Gatt cut in with a short laugh. “It means liar.”

Bull scowled. “Well you don’t have to say it like _that_.”

Solas and Bull both had liar or a variant of it in their names, and Lavellan wasn’t sure what to do with that information besides curse them and the world. Instead, he said, “So, high praises, huh?” Because apparently, levity was his sole defence against collapsing into a mess.

“Aw, c’mon Mercy. Don’t make it awkward.”

“No, no, it’s so nice to know my friends say good things about me in their secret spy reports.”

Some of Gatt’s pleasant disposition faded. “They’re not really secret though, are they?”

Bull’s concern returned. “Gatt―”

“Don’t worry.” He waved a hand. “I know how it works here. We’re in this together and we all want to stop whatever is going on. Tevinter is terrible enough without this Venatori and their red lyrium.”

Dorian harrumphed behind them. “Ah yes, terrible Tevinter with the filthy, decadent brutes,” he said. “I’m certain life is sparkling under the Qun.”

“It was for me,” said Gatt. “The Qunari rescued me from slavery in Tevinter. I was eight.”

Lavellan sucked in a breath and bit his lip. Eight? _Eight_?

“The Qun isn’t perfect but it gave me a better life.”

Slavery at eight, and then taken in by the Qunari at such a young age. He was just a child.

“Yes, one free from all that pointless free will and independent thought. Such an improvement,” said Dorian.

“Eight,” Lavellan echoed, soft, but it caught their attention.

Gatt pressed his lips and looked away. “Yes,” he murmured. “Eight. I hadn’t known you kept company with advocates for slavery, Inquisitor.”

“When the alternative option is the Qun?” spat Dorian.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said, laced enough reprimand and warning in it. Dorian still believed in slavery, believed it to be better, and Lavellan had forgotten how it nauseated him. “Enough.”

Dorian looked away, sufficiently vexed.

He meant to say something more but then he was unsure what because vindictive rage swirled within him and he imagined the children in his clan, all of them in chains, broken, degraded, and the words wouldn’t come out. Because none would suffice. Solas looked at him intently. Lavellan clenched his fists by his side.

“Let’s focus,” he said instead.

“Are we to gloss over this then?” asked Gatt.

His nails would have cut into his palms had he no gloves on. Recalled Tevinter society when he'd visited. The snippets he'd witnessed into the daily lives of slaves. How they would jest that Lavellan would have made such a fine _servant_ but ultimately _too much to handle, good gracious!_ And they would laugh and he would chuckle along even as vitriolic anger and blood from his bitten cheek mixed in his mouth.

_“Wait,” Lavellan called out to the elven woman, her eyes sunken, scars from lashes and burns peering from above the collar of her shirt. Hand-shaped bruises on her wrists. She was halfway out the window._

_“No,” she whispered. “I can’t take it any longer.”_

_And Lavellan tasted ash with his next words._

_“I can point you to somewhere safe.”_

_She laughed without humour. “Nowhere is safe.”_

_Cassandra and Harding were going to kill him._

_“No, but some_ one _.” Lavellan looked away. “Tonight on the fifth harbour, there is a ship full of escaped slaves. Go with them. They’re going to someone who can offer you shelter. Nobody can touch him. No Tevinter Magister. No one. He will protect you.”_

_And hope dared to light in her eyes. “Who… is this? Why should I trust you?”_

_“He understands the confines of bondage. He has fought for slaves before.” The junction where prosthetic met the deadened flesh of his arm itched despite the nerves there being fried. Solas sought to end the world, yes, but in the midst, he still offered shelter, and was it cruel of Lavellan to give this woman false hope? Perhaps he was no better than Solas after all. “As for trusting me… I would suggest against it except for this instance. Go. I can escort you to fifth harbour.”_

_She stared at him for a long time, before she said, “It’s the Wolf, isn’t it? The one the other elves have been talking about. I thought it was a myth.”_

_His prosthetic hand clenched. “Not a myth.” He offered his hand. “Please. Don’t let them break you. You are stronger than them.”_

_She looked at his hand. Then, slowly, stepped away from the window, and took a few hesitant steps towards him. Her shaking hands rested over his. He gripped it, firm but gentle._

_“Are you his friend?” she asked._

_Lavellan turned and led her gently._

_“Once.”_

_He led her to the fifth harbour and got her safely on the ship with the others and urged them to leave soon. Harding and her agents were coming to stop the voyage and shelter the escaped slaves themselves instead. An attempt to stop Solas’ forces from growing. Lavellan knew, even if he had agreed, that it wouldn’t work. They were no stable organisation. They couldn’t provide the safety and protection they required, especially against their masters. It would only put them in more danger._

_Once Harding arrived with a small escort group, Lavellan stood on the harbour alone, facing off against the moonlight glimmering on the waters._

_“Where are they?” she asked._

_“Gone early,” he said._

_“That’s strange.” She frowned. “And why are you here? I told you I could take care of it.”_

_He finally faced her with a false smile plastered on his face. “I guess I got worried.”_

_But Leliana had handpicked and trained Harding herself. Nothing escaped her._

_“You let them go,” Harding deduced._

_His smile faded into something softer but unremorseful._

_“Why?” she asked._

_“Who are we kidding? We can’t offer them the protection they need.” Lavellan traced the grooves in his prosthetic. “They’re safer with him.”_

_She blinked. “He’s kind of trying to end the world?”_

_“Believe me, Scout Harding, I haven’t forgotten. Not much to be done about it now.” He sighed. “Come on. Let’s head back. I suspect I have two hours of yelling to sit through from Cass.”_

_“Three,” she said with a scowl. “One from me. We’ve discussed this, Inquisitor. You need to consult with us before you decide something.”_

_“I know, Lace, I’m sorry,” he murmured. She softened at her name and her exhale was resigned as she fell into step beside him. As they walked away, Lavellan cast a glance over his shoulders._

_And later, in his dreams, when the Wolf stared him down, Lavellan asked, “Are they safe?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Keep them that way. Do me this final favour.”_

The sound of wooden blocks. It brought Lavellan back into the present and he blinked, everybody’s gaze trained on him in question and he realised he had been silent a while after Gatt’s question. What was it? Right, glossing over the matter.

“No, we’re not,” he answered, surprised at the bitterness in it. Or perhaps not. “But an argument is the last thing we need. For whatever my words are worth, I’m sorry for what you went through.”

Gatt considered him for a moment before nodding.

“Me too.”

He turned and went over the plan of attack even if the atmosphere felt strangled. They were to cover for the dreadnoughts and attack Venatori camps scattered on the coast. They split their main forces ― the Chargers and Lavellan’s team. Lavellan would smile over Bull mother-henning the Chargers and Krem, but he had to agree. This whole thing had him tense.

While Bull discussed the strategy with the Chargers, Solas stood beside him and softly asked, “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Lavellan answered, too quick. Solas shot him a doubtful look but Bull called them over and Lavellan fled that conversation.

After Lavellan’s team dispatched the Venatori in their first targeted camp, he grew suspicious at Solas’ quiet. Even as Bull and Gatt reminisced about their childhood under the Qun.

But Gatt had to poke at the hornet’s nest.

“No tattoos like the Inquisitor,” he noted, looking Solas over. “But you’re carrying a staff. Are you from a Chantry Circle?”

Lavellan almost laughed at that. Solas in a Chantry Circle. Now there was a sight.

“No,” said Solas, voice curt and cold. “I do not want to discuss it.”

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“You joined the Qun.”

Dorian snorted in barely concealed laughter and Bull rubbed his face.

“After they rescued me from slavery,” argued Gatt.

“A slave may always struggle for freedom. But you among the Qun have been taught not to think.”

“You hold the thought of freedom over _actual_ freedom.”

“When the cost is your individuality, it cannot be deemed as such. You did not break your chains. Merely swapped them for another.”

“Solas,” Bull interrupted. “Not now.”

Lavellan hated every second of this goddamn mission. 

They continued, the atmosphere thickening the longer the silence dragged. His raven circled over their group at one point and cawed twice. Lavellan squinted.

“We’re close to the next camp,” said Lavellan.

“Is that your little mayhem?” asked Bull. Lavellan smiled at that. His little mayhem?

“Yeah. Two caws, danger.”

They easily swept through the second camp, but the spellbinder headbutted Lavellan as a last resort. He waited for his eyes to stop watering as they trekked to the last camp, waving off Solas’ fussing, but he relented and allowed Solas to at least ease the pain.

They dealt with the last camp without further fuss.

“Clear, Gatt,” said Bull.

Gatt sent up the dreadnought signal and Lavellan breathed easier. Maybe this end well, after all. Well enough.

“My boys already sent theirs up,” said Bull, brimming with pride. “See them down there?”

“Knew you gave them the easier job,” said Gatt.

The dreadnought rolled in, a battleship reflecting the formidability of the Qunari with its metal-plated hull and its angular protrusions from the bow. It fired at the poor, wooden smuggler’s ship and there went all that red lyrium. Bull laughed.

“Nice,” he said.

Lavellan had to admit, the dreadnoughts _were_ a sight to behold. He would ask how the ship managed to stay afloat with all that metal but suspected he wouldn't get an answer. The Qunari closely guarded their secrets.

And as with all good things in his life, it never lasted long. 

Venatori closed in on the Chargers’ position and Lavellan lost count of their numbers. He took a quick stock of the Chargers who prepared to fight, but several were injured or exhausted.

“Ah crap,” Bull muttered and whatever triumphant atmosphere they had shifted into a trepid, asphyxiating presence.

Lavellan turned to Gatt and said, “Your information was wrong.” Did all he could to keep the accusation out of it. Gatt’s face tensed as he watched them. Lavellan’s panic resurfaced and it took everything in him to keep his wits about him. He reached into his pocket and gripped the stone.

“Then we’ve been compromised,” said Gatt. “Only a few people knew about this operation. We have a spy in our midst.”

“Is that really our main concern right now?” Lavellan snapped. “They’ll be overrun. Not even we can hold off that many.”

Gatt ignored him and frowned at Bull. “Your men need to hold that position, Hissrad.”

“They do that,” said Bull, expression dark, “they’re dead.”

“If they don’t, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnought is dead. You’ll throw away an alliance with the Inquisition. You’d be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth!”

Bull glowered at him.

Lavellan’s nerves frayed and he glanced back at the advancing throng of Venatori, Bull and Gatt’s argument dulling in his ears.

“They’re _my_. Men,” Bull reasserted.

Gatt’s face softened. “I know. But you need to do what’s right, Hissrad. For this alliance. For the Qun.”

And for the first time, Lavellan saw Bull look adrift. In the face of demons, dragons, whatever the world threw at him, Bull faced them head-on despite his fears and came out roaring triumphantly. Bull looked at Lavellan. Implored. Lavellan’s stomach sank. No, this wasn’t right. He couldn’t make Bull’s decision for him.

Lavellan looked out, time slowing in his alarm. He ran it through his head.

An alliance. With the Qunari. That was unprecedented, and it would certainly give them an edge in the fight against Corypheus. There were a good number of men manning that dreadnought who would lose their lives too, likely on par with the Chargers in number, maybe more. From a militaristic perspective, the choice was easy.

But the Inquisition was built from the people. From their faith, from their efforts. It stood because of the people within it, and it stood triumphant because of those people.

“Bull,” said Lavellan, throat thick, “I can’t decide for you. But know this.” He looked Bull in the eye and he wasn’t sure what for, but he pleaded too. Pleaded that this time, please, choose them over the Qun. It was so utterly selfish of Lavellan and unfair on Bull. But please, he couldn’t do it again. The Chargers’ death would be the death of the Iron Bull, and Lavellan could not watch that happen a second time.

He pointed at the Chargers. Tears were warm at the back of his eyes and they shared a broken look.

“They are _yours_. You are their world.”

A dead-eyed Krem, Skinner engulfed in rage, Dalish doing her best to keep everyone together, Grim’s disappearance after Bull’s betrayal… The Iron Bull had been their world.

He had to swallow to keep going. “And they are yours, Bull. They’re yours.”

“Don’t!” said Gatt. “Please, Hissrad, don’t throw this all away.

_I’m sorry to ask this much of you, but please choose us. Let me be selfish. Please, choose us._

And the Iron Bull’s conflicted expression melted.

He closed his eyes, and, one could argue, finally made a choice that was entirely his.

He lifted the horn on his belt to his lips and sounded the retreat.

Lavellan choked on his gasp.

“No!” cried Gatt.

The Chargers retreated. Lavellan stared at their retreat, hands cold and trembling, frozen in disbelief because _holy shit, holy shit—_

Gatt paced, shaking his head.

“All these years, Hissrad, and you throw it all away! For what? For this?” He fixed Lavellan a venomous glare and spat, “For _them_?”

Lavellan flinched. To his surprise, it was Dorian who defended Bull.

“His name,” Dorian spat right back with even more venom, “is The Iron Bull.”

Bull stared at Dorian, wide-eyed. Even Dorian seemed surprised by his outburst. Gatt cast his gaze down, his anger melting, replaced by deadly calm.

“I suppose it is,” he said, shot them all a final, bitter and resigned look, and walked away without another word. They stayed on the edge of that cliff while the Venatori overtook the Chargers' previous post and struck the dreadnoughts with a volley of mage fire.

“The dreadnoughts can’t get out of range,” said Bull, sullen. “Won’t be long now.”

Lavellan forced himself to keep watching. Another game of weighing lives. The Chargers' lives in exchange for those manning the dreadnought, and he kept watching even as the dreadnought exploded in a shower of fire and smoke, the debris fluttering over turbulent waves like tainted snowfall. Stood even as the heat and wind from the explosion swept past them.

He had to watch. Bull was as still as him.

They both knew to look at the consequences of their actions without faltering. They had to. Their backs were an inspiration to those behind them.

“Bull…” Lavellan murmured but was unsure about what to say next.

Bull gave him a wan, exhausted smile. “Let’s get back to my boys.”

* * *

The travel back to Skyhold was sombre and the Chargers’ previous energy had been dulled by the fight. They all knew the terrible burden and cost of Bull’s choice. They sat with Bull in silence on the way, and upon arrival at Skyhold, their quiet jarred everyone. The Chargers always returned merry. Loud.

Now the atmosphere hovering around them was funereal. Walked in vigil.

Lavellan bid Solas and Dorian to rest and Bull did the same with his Chargers. Once the two were left alone at the gates, Bull turned to Lavellan.

“Want a drink, Mercy?”

“Fuck.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes.”

“Something strong?”

“Yes.”

Instead of the tavern, Bull led him to the top of a watchtower, disappeared for a while, then returned with an unlabelled bottle and two tankards. He poured for Lavellan and contemplated his tankard before he shrugged and drank straight from the bottle. Lavellan took a swig. Bitter, burned, killed any feeling in his throat. It tasted like absolute piss.

“Nice, right?” asked Bull.

“Just what I need.”

“Ha!”

They finished the bottle between the two of them, Bull drinking most of it because there was an awful lot of him for the alcohol to work through. Lavellan’s vision swam when he turned his head to look at Bull.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Rasped, more like.

Bull snorted, tipped his head back to drink, but there was none left. He grunted.

“Why? Nobody died. Why’re we all acting like somebody died. Well, none of ours, anyway…” Bull looked up at the sky.

“Maybe, but Hissrad died.”

“Hissrad’s already been dying.”

Lavellan made a series of incomprehensible noises, grunted, and gave up on that line of thought. Whatever it was. He couldn’t be too sure what it was.

“You made a still difficult choice,” said Lavellan. “I’m sorry.”

“Fault’s not yours, Mercy. I blew that horn. I should be the one saying sorry. I tried to make you choose for me.”

“I still kind of sort of did a swaying. Little bit.”

He chuckled. “Hey, c’mon, don’t tell me it’s hitting already.”

Lavellan huffed. “You’re the size of a horse. I’m elf. Small.”

The skies bruised in the twilight. Lavellan noticed the first of the stars appearing and drummed his fingers on the tankard.

“I was hoping you’d call the retreat,” admitted Lavellan.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Bull nudged Lavellan playfully with his elbows. Lavellan swayed and tried to right himself again, vision drifting. “And I meant it.”

“Huh?”

“The things I said about you and the work you’ve done in the reports I sent. You’re a good man, Mahanon. You try to be even when you have to make the tough calls.”

Warmth behind his eyes.

“Thanks,” he managed to say through the tangle in his throat.

“You’ve gone through some shit, haven’t you?”

“You too. Seheron was a nasty.”

“No kidding.”

They stayed longer in the silence, under the weight of their choices, the weight of the world and everything in between. Profound relief thrummed his nerves. At the same time, guilt warred for space with it and their interplay morphed each other into something unsightly. Guilt from the relief. Guilt at the relief.

“I knew a Qunari, once,” said Lavellan. “I thought we were good friends. We fought together. He had my back, I had his. He and a friend of mine got together. All nice. Happy even when things were going to shit.”

“Sensing a but.”

“The Qunari told him no more and ordered him to turn against us.”

Bull hung his head. “Ah,” he said softly. “Shit.”

Lavellan snorted in agreement, eyes blurring with unshed tears even as he blinked them away.

“We had to kill ‘im. My friend and I. That or let him kill us and no way that was happening. He just… did it.” Lavellan worked through the tightness of his throat. Snapped his fingers. “Like that. No hesitation, nothing. Snapped and we’re flies to him. Things. _Bas_ ,” he spat. “Fucker. Couldn’t even ask if he felt anything, _anything_ at all.” Lavellan drew his knees up and let his head fall against it. “Couldn’t ask if it meant anything.”

Bull leaned his head back against the merlons of the battlements. “He probably had to kill the meanings too.”

“You think?”

“He would have had to. Otherwise, he was fucked.”

“You think it was all an act?”

Bull played with the empty bottle. “Dunno. Maybe it wasn’t an act, then it had to be. Or maybe the not caring was the act. Had to act like it meant nothing to make it easier for you guys to hate him, and if you hate him, makes it easier for him to kill you.”

Lavellan barked out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Then he still failed at that because I don’t hate him.” _I let him back in. I let him have my back again. I’m sharing a drink with him again._

Creators, he was so close to bawling on the spot, but he knew he would be able to hold if off, press it down. Until he could curl up in the silence of his room and cry himself to sleep.

“When I was younger,” Bull began, “they already had me set up to be a fighter. I was big, I was tough. Obvious choice, right? But then, they found out I could also lie.”

The night passed with stories shared between them. Stories of Bull’s childhood under the Qun, the people he knew.

It felt like Bull was saying goodbye to it.

He likely was.

Lavellan listened. It was the best he could do. Listened to stories about the Qunari, Hissrad, and when their conversation ended, it was like a send-off at the conclusion of a funeral.

Just before they went their separate ways, Bull called out to him.

“Hey, Mercy? I just want you to know, whatever happens, whatever I regret, I’m where I want to be.” He smiled. “And if you have to, if I do lose my mind and go savage, kill me.”

And Lavellan squeezed Bull’s arm, gave him a resolute stare. “We’ll help you not go savage first. I doubt you will anyway. You have more willpower than you think.”

Bull took a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

Lavellan patted his arm. “Get some rest. It’s been… a long day.”

He went straight to his quarters, closed the door behind him, managed to peel all his armour off and change into a comfortable attire. Crawled under his covers. Curled up.

Sobbed. Cried himself to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, he met Bull on the training grounds and found Gatt waiting as well. He donned his Inquisitor mask. Gatt nodded at him stiffly when he arrived.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted. “I’ve been sent to inform you that there will be no alliance between our peoples. You will no longer receive Ben-Hassrath reports from your _Tal-Vashoth_ ally.”

Bull crossed his arms. “Here to kill me, Gatt?”

“No. They’ve lost one good man. They don’t want to lose two.” He bowed, a final gesture of respect, and walked away.

Bull watched him until he disappeared down the stairs. Then sighed.

“Well, that was fun,” he grumbled.

“The loss of the Ben-Hassrath reports will be felt,” said Lavellan and rubbed the back of his head. “We can smoke out some of your old contacts?”

Bull nodded. “They’ll pull their people soon enough, but we might be able to identify their replacements. Thinking ahead again, I see.”

“Might as well be useful while I’m here, right?”

Krem approached, holding himself awkwardly.

“You’re late,” said Bull.

He grinned and rolled his shoulders. “Sorry, chief, still sore from fighting all those ‘Vints.” He nodded at Lavellan. “Good to see you, Inquisitor.”

“How are the Chargers?” he asked.

“No major injuries. All just tired. Thanks to you and chief, we had plenty of time to fall back.” They fell into formation, shields held up. “He’s even breaking open a bottle Chasind Sack Mead for us tonight. Heard about the drinking you guys did yesterday. Feeling a little left out.”

“Less yammering,” said Bull and rammed into Krem.

Krem braced himself and held his ground, struggled against Bull for a few seconds, before he successfully shoved him back. Bull staggered. Lavellan grinned, and Bull shook his head, smiling in approval.

“Ah forget it,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one followed the script more because it never happened before for Lavellan. More peeks into the post-Trespasser future too. Lavellan and Dorian still need to have a Chat about slavery as well which is a conversation they will definitely have (and is actually already written but it's quite a few chapters away).
> 
> I'm going to start slowing updates down to only every Thursday after next week. So two more updates for next week (Ch. 24 and 25) then it'll slow to once a week because the chapters are getting longer and editing them's starting to take longer on top of writing new content. I am a very impatient person however so I'll have to hold myself back from throwing out chapters too early otherwise I'm going to run out of buffer chapters.


	24. Sacrifices of the forgotten

_death in the masks that we fought in―_

* * *

The corridors of the Hall’s lower floors filled Lavellan with a trepidation he couldn’t shake off. It wasn’t as if they were claustrophobic. There was plenty of room, plenty of light from the candles, plenty of cheery artworks scattered at random intervals. Rather, the trepidation was from who he was about to meet.

The last few times he'd met Alexius, he almost died or he made the man feel worse. But they needed to talk. His research papers had arrived from Tevinter which he had sent to Lavellan who now clutched them tight in his hand

He stopped at the door which led to Alexius’ research office and entered.

The first thing which caught his attention was the large table in the centre boasting an assortment of apparatuses, and the child in Lavellan bounced at the sight. Questions fired in his head ― _what was that? What is this? What does it do? Is there a reason why that tube curls?_ He shook his head. Not now.

Alexius was in the middle of writing, his table hard against the wall with shelves of books on either side and a guard beside him. Reagan, their name was. Lavellan glanced at Alexius’ shackles. He had been cooperative, said Solas, so the deal was that if Lavellan was satisfied with the research Alexius had done, he would ease the restrictions.

Reagan saluted which caught Alexius’ attention. He turned then, glanced at Lavellan with detached interest and said, “Try not to touch anything, Inquisitor. I have been warned about your propensity to meddle and fiddle with things you know nothing about.”

Reagan bristled beside Alexius. “You will speak to the Inquisitor with respect!” he demanded.

“It’s alright, Reagan, thank you,” said Lavellan. “Could you leave us for a moment?”

He hesitated, before he saluted and left.

Once it was just the two of them, Alexius grunted. “What is this supposed to be? A smug display? Yes, the magister is bound and helpless and the Inquisitor could easily kill him where he stood.”

“If I wanted you dead, I would have done it earlier,” said Lavellan. “I’m not here to pick a fight, Alexius. I came here to talk.”

“We are talking, are we not?”

“About your research.”

“Ah.” Alexius put his quill down and stood, faced Lavellan, the chains of his shackles ringing in the room. “I wouldn’t believe you if it had not been for your friend. Solas.”

“Have the two of you been able to work together alright?”

He sniffed. “He seems to have his wits about him, at the very least. He is knowledgeable. I feel as if all his knowledge is going to waste.”

“Don’t worry. I ask the right questions.”

Alexius eyed him. “Do you?”

He smiled. “I do. And I’ve read over your research.” He went to put the papers down on the large table but hesitated, glanced at Alexius in silent question. Alexius waved him off.

“Do as you like.” He considered the liquid still inside some of the glassware. “But keep them away from the flasks and the fire.”

Lavellan watched the spherical flask filled with boiling blue liquid which graduated to green as it passed through a tube and dripped into a flask. “What are you doing?”

“I detest small talk. Get on with it.”

He huffed. “I’m serious. I’m curious.”

Alexius regarded him as if trying to determine the validity of his claims before he crossed the room and gestured at the first spherical flask. “I am testing whether I can refine the regenerative properties of a conventional healing elixir with a little magic. I am on my third extraction of the fifth trial.”

And because Lavellan just couldn’t resist, he battered Alexius with questions. After concluding that no, Lavellan wasn’t mocking him, Alexius gladly answered and his hostility faded, somewhat. They moved on to a discussion about Alexius’ current projects and he spoke of his current focus which was self-sustaining magic.

“You see here,” he said and unrolled a large canvas over the table. It was a schematic of a machine devised in Tevinter. “They wished to pull the coaches using magic alone but abandoned the idea since it cost more energy on the mages’ part and it was more convenient to let the horses pull them. But I see it as a waste. They had the right idea but if I can just find a way to make the energy circulate on its own after an initial charging…”

“That _would_ be a breakthrough,” agreed Lavellan.

Alexius continued and Lavellan made inputs every now and again, lost track of the time.

The experiment with the healing elixir finished and Alexius hurried about trying to jot things down and grumbled when his shackles got in the way. After, he frowned again at Lavellan.

“Alright Inquisitor, you’ve feigned listening for long enough. I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to me natter on.”

Lavellan shot him an exasperated look. “How are you so daft and intelligent at the same time? I wasn’t faking my interest. I got side-tracked because I was that intrigued by the work you’ve been doing.”

Alexius still looked unconvinced but some of the apprehension dissipated. “Why?” he asked.

“Um, how am I supposed to answer that? It’s interesting because it’s interesting?”

“Most would have glazed their eyes in the first five seconds. That or retreat, screaming at the evil mage.”

“Sorry to disappoint you then. No daydreaming or running from me.”

Alexius harrumphed. “More’s the pity.” Then he looked out the window and sighed, shoulders slumping once more. “So what else did you wish to speak about?”

“A few things,” said Lavellan. “Have you spoken to Dorian?”

“Yes,” he grunted. “He came down looking like a wet rag feeling sorry for itself so I put him to work and made him fetch me things.”

Lavellan smiled but dropped it when Alexius turned to face him again. “I gather he enjoyed that.”

“Wouldn’t stop complaining.”

“That does sound like him,” he said. Alexius smiled briefly, but Lavellan took the small victory. “And, I suppose, I wanted to check on you. How are you doing?”

“Oh, you want to speak of _feelings_ I see.”

“I’m serious, Alexius.”

“I know. Which makes it doubly worse. I wish to keep those to myself if you do not mind.”

Lavellan nodded. “Not at all. At least… At least discuss them with somebody you trust. Dorian maybe.”

Alexius stayed quiet.

Then, “We’ll see.” Which was as close to a yes as Lavellan would get.

“And,” continued Lavellan, “I wanted to talk to you about your research. About time magic.”

“It has brought me nothing but death and ruination. I should have never touched it and I will have to decline if you want me to work on it again.”

“Not… quite.” Lavellan chewed on his lip. He had deliberated on it for several nights already, considered telling Alexius what had happened to Lavellan, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to trust Alexius about that. Alexius might get it into his head to just undo everything again if they stumbled across an answer. “I just want to know how it worked. You said it seemed to revolve around the Breach?”

“Why?”

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “Even more so when it’s not understood.”

Alexius gave him a steady look. “You lie, Inquisitor.”

“My reasons are my own.”

“So were the Elder One’s.”

Lavellan cracked a wry smile. “Believe me, I’m not interested in bringing back something of the past. I’m telling the truth. I want to understand it.”

“Yes, but you lie about why you want to understand it. It’s why you kept me alive isn’t it? I am the only one with a deeper understanding of time magic.”

“I can’t tell you why without revealing even more that I can’t answer.”

“Then be on your way, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan clenched his jaw. Was this a risk he was willing to take?

“If what I tell you gives the breakthrough you would have needed, what will you do? Will you attempt to turn everything back?”

Alexius scoffed. “Is that what this is about? You worry I will attempt to turn time back?”

“Why not? It’s a tempting notion, isn’t it? Save your wife, stop Felix from contracting the Blight.”

“You overestimate the amount of fight I have left in me, Inquisitor.” He looked away. “I have said my goodbyes. I am not so cruel as to rip them from death.”

“That may be what you think now but what then if it’s in front of you?”

He chuckled. “You think demons haven’t already tried to tempt me with it? I am still here, am I not?”

“True enough. But I still can’t tell you.”

“Then I can’t help you. Simple as that.”

Lavellan chewed on his lip. Truly considered telling Alexius then, but he shook his head.

“Walls have ears,” he said instead. “Good day then, Alexius. I wish you luck with your current endeavours. But before I go…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “Wrists out,” he said.

His eyes widened. “You’re unshackling me?”

“Just the wrists. Maybe I’ll send you an assistant too. I’m afraid I can’t give you Solas though. He’s mine.”

He raised a brow at Lavellan’s choice of words.

“One of mine,” he elaborated as he worked on the shackles. The shackles were simple, just like any normal shackles, but enchanted specifically for mages. Once locked, the entire thing became magic-resistant. “The conditions for this is that you get a Templar guard instead of a regular one.” He suspected Reagan would be ecstatic about being relieved of his ward.

“Fine by me.” He rubbed his wrists when the shackles came off and Lavellan readied himself for any sudden attacks, but Alexius made no move. Simply nodded at him. “Thank you, Inquisitor. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a report I need to write to Fiona.” He sat himself back down at the table and that was that. Lavellan made to exit the room but stopped at the door.

“Alexius?” he called out.

He grunted again. “What now?”

Lavellan smiled. “Can I visit again?”

“Do as you like. You’re Inquisitor, aren’t you?”

“I’ll bring a fruit basket next time.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Pomegranates,” he decided. “Going once, going twice?”

“I hope you choke on them.”

“Good man.” He grinned and left the room, informed Reagan of the new development, and continued.

It seemed Alexius was out of the question, however, his research did sound interesting and promising and Lavellan genuinely wished him the best. Dorian was right. Research did make Alexius happy.

Speaking of Dorian, Lavellan asked for his whereabouts and the others pointed him to the garden. 

Skyhold’s garden was coming along nicely. The frigid air had thawed in the mild warmth of the stubborn needles of sunlight piercing through the grey clouds, and the burst of colour from the asters and winterbells brought a little cheer into the place. Lavellan eyed one of the corners, already planning the herb garden in his head. He'd used pots before. Maybe this time he would try a bed and separate them with small stones.

And there under the gazebo was Dorian and Solas engaged in a game of chess.

Lavellan approached. Solas leaned back with a self-satisfied smile and Dorian bent over the board, grumbling in thought. They both looked up at Lavellan’s arrival.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted. “It’s a lovely day today.”

“It’s overcast, you loon,” Dorian muttered.

“Can I not appreciate the clouds for their resplendence?”

Dorian looked at Lavellan as if begging. “Look at him, he’s absolutely beside himself.”

Lavellan studied the board and laughed. “I think he has every right to be. How did you get this cornered?”

“He was being _sneaky_ ,” he hissed, faked his affront. “The nerve of him.”

Solas steepled his fingers. “I am not the one who cheated.”

“Ah. Death to cheaters,” agreed Lavellan.

“I thought we were friends. Death to traitors,” returned Dorian.

“You wound me.”

Lavellan watched their match even if it was already inevitable Solas would win. It of course came as no surprise when Solas moved his final, winning piece.

“I believe the game is mine,” he said.

Dorian shook his head. “Terrible.” He was smiling though. “So, dear Inquisitor, what brings you to the garden?”

“Looking for you actually,” he said. “I just spoke to Alexius.”

That sobered Dorian. “Oh? How is he? I haven’t spoken to him since last week.”

“He’s alright. Better than when I last saw him, at least. Grumpy.” Lavellan laughed faintly. “I did spend more time there than I thought I would. He has a few interesting projects lined up. Did you know he’s looking into self-sustaining magic?”

“He told me of it,” said Dorian, mildly surprised. “You truly listened to him blabber on?”

Lavellan blinked. “Yes?”

“Impressive,” he said. “Even I fall asleep. He is so enthusiastic and yet so boring when he relays them.” He laughed. “It earned me a few slaps behind the head during my apprenticeship.”

“Maybe I’m just easily impressed? I don’t know, I thought it was fascinating. I also eased his restrictions. No more wrist shackles but Cullen made me have a Templar stationed to him. Fair enough, I suppose. I was also thinking of giving him an assistant, what do you think?”

Dorian looked at Solas. “Aren’t they already working together?”

“Solas is―” he stopped himself before he said something idiotic like _mine_ again― “working with us most of the time. And I mean, an actual, dedicated assistant. He could use some help around the lab.”

Solas hummed. “Perhaps a young apprentice among the mages. Some of them could certainly benefit from working under him and I suspect the company would do him good.”

Lavellan nodded. “Not a bad idea.”

“Well, I better go see him then,” said Dorian as he stood and stretched. “While he’s still sufficiently annoyed from your visit.”

“Running away, Pavus?” Solas asked.

“Strategically retreating.”

“Of course. My mistake. Be on your way then.”

Dorian gave Lavellan a look as if to say, _Do you see what I have to put up with?_ And Lavellan answered with a look in kind which said, _Yes. Trust me, I do._

“Care for a round, Inquisitor?” Solas asked.

Lavellan considered him and the board with a hum for a moment, then asked, “Black or white?”

Solas smiled. “White.”

He sat on the seat Dorian had vacated and helped Solas prepare the board. Lavellan leaned on his thighs with a sharp smile.

“You’ve been wanting this game for a while, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Ever since Val Royeaux? Yes, quite. You learn a great many things about a person by the way they play chess.” He moved his knight.

Lavellan raised a brow at him. Solas was basically letting Lavellan choose the direction of the game.

“You’re that confident, are you?” he asked and moved his knight to mirror Solas.

Solas merely smiled, made his next move. “What did you and Alexius talk about?”

“Like I said, his projects.”

Solas peered at him. “No discussion of time magic?”

“Alexius doesn’t want to touch it again. I’m not forcing him to do it. I’ll have to make do with his research,” he said.

“That is probably for the best.”

They spoke of several things as they played: Lavellan’s idea for the herb garden, Solas’ recent mishaps due to Sera’s pranks, Lavellan’s gripes about the etiquette lessons, all manner of things.

Soon, Solas’ easy smile slipped and he leaned forward in thought. Lavellan would grin at him in taunting but he was no better. He'd never actually played against Solas before, not even in his past life, so while it was in character, Solas’ methods still came as a surprise. He was reckless, aggressive, sacrificed vital pieces. At points, Lavellan was sure he’d thrown the game or was letting Lavellan win.

That was his mistake.

And soon Lavellan stared down at the board with an annoyed grumble. Dead positions. How terribly fitting that neither of them won. Sacrificed too much. Now look where they were.

Solas laughed softly. “A draw.”

Lavellan recalled the blades piercing both their hearts and resisted holding a hand up to where the blade had entered flesh.

But life was not chess.

It was no draw. It was twice the loss.

“Well played,” Lavellan complimented, mouth dry.

“Likewise.” He gestured at the board. “Unless you’d care for another round?”

Lavellan considered it, then shrugged and gave what he hoped passed as a casual smile.

“Are you that eager for me to kick your ass?”

“Careful, Inquisitor. Your fragile body may not be able to carry the weight of such a large head.”

Solas prepared the board once more but Lavellan’s raven cawed and swooped into the gazebo, a roll of paper clutched in her claws. Lavellan caught the letter when she dropped it. She perched on his shoulders and cawed, “Clever girl.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. Stroked the underside of her beak.

“Yes, yes, you’re a clever girl. What have you brought me?”

“Iron Bull,” she said, puffed her feathers in pride.

Lavellan opened the paper which simply said: _Meet me on the battlements._ How ominous. Still, he used Lavellan’s raven instead of just getting somebody to come fetch him and he frowned.

“I’m sorry Solas,” he said and stood. “I’ll have to kick your ass another time.”

“Prepare to be disappointed,” he calmly returned. “Is everything alright?”

Lavellan pocketed the letter and pursed his lips. “Hopefully. I’ll see you later.”

He ascended the garden stairs which led to the battlements and found Bull near Skyhold’s gatehouse. Bull turned to greet him with a smile. Nothing seemed amiss.

“Hey Mercy,” he greeted.

“Bull, you wanted to talk to me?”

Two Inquisition soldiers exited the opposite watchtower and headed their way.

No salutes.

One of them drew a blade and rushed forward and Lavellan was already reaching for his daggers.

“I got it!” said Bull as he whirled and socked the assassin in the jaw. The other threw a knife which lodged in Bull’s shoulders but he yanked it out and hurled it right back. It hit the assassin’s throat and they fell with a gurgle.

The remaining assassin staggered up, spat, “Ebost issala, Tal-Vashoth!” 

Bull grabbed and threw him over the battlements. He dusted his hands off as he listened to the assassin’s screams fade.

“Yeah, yeah, my soul’s dust. Yours is scattered all over the ground though, so…” He hissed as he rolled his shoulders and finally faced Lavellan whose hands still hovered over his daggers. Even his raven seemed stuck in a position ready to take flight. “Sorry, Mercy. Thought I might need backup. Guess I’m not even worth sending professionals for.”

Lavellan looked back over the battlements, still bewildered. “You knew the assassins were coming?”

“Guard rotation changed,” he explained.

He scowled. “Wonderful. Only a month in Skyhold and we’re already compromised.” Lavellan _really_ didn't want a repeat of the Exalted Council incident with Fen’Harel and Qunari agents tripping over each other’s dicks.

“It’s a rite of passage at this point. Congratulations, Mercy, your organisation's important!”

Lavellan snorted, was already digging around his pockets to give Bull a cloth.

“That looks poisoned,” he said.

“It is,” said Bull and accepted the cloth, mopped up the blood with a wince. “Good thing I’ve been dosing myself with the antidote. Just stings like shit right now, but that’s it. Lucky you. No dealing with a rampaging Qunari hurling his guts out his mouth.”

Lavellan cringed at the image. “I hoped the Ben-Hassrath would have let you go.”

“They did,” he said, tone dipping momentarily into something vulnerable. “This was more of a formality. Making it clear that I’m…” He looked down and sighed. “Tal-Va-fucking-shoth.”

This was new. Lavellan had changed things but… was it a good change? Bull lost the way of life he had known his whole life and now he just looked miserable. Maybe he wasn’t the one who made the choice for Bull, but he did manipulate Bull. Somewhat. Then again, Bull could have easily ignored Lavellan’s appeals.

Bull could have easily decided the Chargers’ deaths were worth the sacrifice.

“Bull, that doesn’t change who you are,” said Lavellan. “That’s title given to by a system you no longer follow. I know you’re a good man, and you’re someone who cares about his friends. If that’s Tal-Vashoth for them, so be it.”

_So why did he turn on you? Were you ever really friends then?_

Lavellan acknowledged the thoughts but gave them no purchase to cling to. That was done. No matter how it hurt, that was done.

Someday, maybe the pain would dull enough for him to completely ignore it.

He shook his head. “Without the Qun to live by… The Tal-Vashoth I fought in Seheron were savages, bastards who turned their backs on the Qun.” His face pulled tight. “And now I’m one of them.”

“Bull, Seheron was a shitshow. I’m pretty sure they were like that because of the conditions. Tal-Vashoth is nothing but another set of words assigned to those who no longer follow the Qun. Tal-Vashoth doesn’t mean savage or murderer or freak. And that’s a Qunari word, which you aren’t any longer, so technically you’re not Vashoth either. You’re the Iron Bull, Captain of the Bull’s Chargers.” Lavellan pulled a face. “And the Inquisitor’s _really_ expensive bodyguard.”

Bull snorted. “Hey, I’m a bargain. And so worth it.”

Lavellan’s joking expression softened.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “and a friend.”

“Aw, Mercy.”

Lavellan gently grabbed his arm and tugged on it. “Come on, let’s get that seen to. We’ll tell Cullen and Leliana about this too. I don’t like the thought of too many spies crawling all over us like ants.”

Bull laughed faintly and walked beside Lavellan.

It was a while of silence before Lavellan spoke up again and said, “Thank you.”

He frowned at Lavellan. “For what?”

“For choosing us. I’m sorry it had to be like this.” Lavellan looked up at Bull. “We’re here for you. Whatever you need.”

Bull slung his arm around Lavellan’s shoulders. Though with their height difference, it was more of a resting it on the shoulders and they probably looked comical like this.

“Thanks, Mercy.”

After they got Bull’s injury seen to and reported the incident to Cullen and Leliana, Lavellan and Bull headed back to the tavern for another round of drinks with the Chargers. Lavellan had no plans to drink but he always enjoyed their company. As if he was convincing himself it was real.

On the walk, Lavellan asked, “Hypothetically, if the Qunari asked you to betray the Inquisition, what would you do?”

Bull slanted him a glance, probably already knew why Lavellan was asking.

“I’d politely tell them to choke on my cock,” he said.

Lavellan laughed. “Politely?”

“Politely.”

Tentative hope blossomed in Lavellan’s heart. If the Qunari hadn't extended the offer of alliance towards the Inquisition, then Bull would have stayed loyal to the Qun. Lavellan had thought his betrayal inevitable, but wasn’t that a terrible mindset? If he wanted things to change, he should seek to change them, try different avenues, look into things he hadn’t considered. If he could change and control certain events why couldn’t he extend that to the fate of his friends and his soldiers?

Maybe he needn’t brace for Solas’ plans.

Perhaps Lavellan could try. He wasn’t sure what he could try yet but he should start looking.

Or perhaps…

Perhaps he was playing god too. Like Solas. Like Corypheus.

Maybe he would drink after all.

* * *

Lavellan stared at the two letters in his hand, fraught and tense, dissected the information presented to him with the critical eye he had honed and sharpened over the years through political navigation and deception.

On one hand was a letter from Jester, one of Leliana’s agents. There was a plague in Wycome which apparently only affected humans and so the nobles blamed it on the elves. The duke chose Clan Lavellan as his scapegoat. How fortunate for him that one of Josephine’s ambassadors, Lady Guinevere, discovered that the duke had been using _red crystals_ in the well to purify the water and that he had not _improved_ the alienage’s well just yet. _That_ information he had not known in his past life. He was too hasty then, had ordered the assassination.

Terrible choice. He had to wait, had to be careful and treat this with caution.

“It’s red lyrium isn’t it?” he grumbled.

“It would seem that way,” said Cullen.

The letter from the ambassador further informed that the duke had a Tevinter advisor who wished to meet with her. Her letter’s subtle phrasing was not lost on them.

“I fear for Lady Guinevere’s safety,” said Josephine, “but she is a brilliant negotiator. I have faith that she can find a peaceful solution.”

Leliana shook her head. “No. This is no longer a matter of diplomacy, Josie. We must eliminate the Tevinter advisor if the Lady suspects him a Venatori.”

He had been hasty with the duke before, but…

“Becoming increasingly _difficult_ to _resist_ such a tempting offer,” he read out loud. “The emphasis would be easily dismissible as her being an enthusiastic writer.” Lavellan looked at his advisors over the paper. “If we were idiots. Which I sure hope we aren’t. This Tevinter advisor is too eager. I’m _sure_ she’s a charming woman and this advisor must be of equal charm if she’s having trouble resisting his offer.”

“Mm,” agreed Cullen. “The Venatori are supremacists. The chances of them listening to offers of peace from an Inquisition representative is low.”

”I _did_ almost bury their leader under snow,” said Lavellan with mild amusement. “I don’t want to risk it. What if Lady Guinevere is killed? The hatred of the nobles against the elves will grow. They’ll easily slaughter the elves in the alienage and come for my clan and they’ll do so under the impression that they’ve saved themselves from some bogus elven illness. If we eliminate the Tevinter advisor, what are the repercussions?”

Josephine considered it. “Seeing as he is only an advisor… and a foreigner at that, he will be missed by the duke, not the nobility, though it will still cause a stir. Even then, it cannot be pinned back to us. It could easily be the machinations of their court, perhaps somebody jealous of the advisor’s rising importance.”

Leliana nodded. “Jester is one of my best. If you wish to plant misleading evidence as well, it can be done.”

He placed both letters down on the table and deliberated over them, hoped against hope that his decision wasn’t hasty. Wasn’t misguided. No, he had to trust his instincts. Keep a level head. He fixed Leliana a hard look.

“Do it. Get someone to destroy the lyrium in the well too.”

“That could be dangerous,” said Cullen. “They’ll experience withdrawal. The city’s environment is already tense.”

“We’ll have to keep a close eye on this then.” This was more complicated than he expected. “But I can’t in good conscience keep letting those people drink poisoned water.”

“It will be done then,” said Leliana.

Lavellan pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes.

“This takes so long,” he muttered. “I wish I could go over there myself.”

“It is frustrating, Inquisitor, I understand,” said Josephine. “But you inevitably have greater control here, and away from the wrought atmosphere, it is likelier that you will think clearly.”

“I know,” he sighed. “And I’d be incredibly unhelpful if I was over there anyway. It’s too personal.”

“Precisely.” She offered a sympathetic smile. “And at this point, this is the best we can do. It does no good to deliberate too long on it. We must trust in our people.”

He held his hands behind his back and wrung his fingers, staring at the small markers over the map.

“Perhaps the preparations for the upcoming Satinalia celebration may help take your mind off it,” Josephine suggested. Satinalia, a celebration for the first day of winter ― a day of feasting, festivities, gift-giving and the wearing of masks.

Lavellan had finished the wood carvings for Solas in time but then he had decided to carve something for the inner circle too because he was a sentimental sap. So now, it felt weird giving it to just Solas. It was a collection now. So far, he had finished the pieces for Solas, Cassandra, and the advisors.

“Is this really the time?” grunted Cullen.

“We need to give our soldiers a break, Commander,” said Josephine. “Besides, Satinalia is a popular holiday, and it has pious roots. Many have expressed their wishes to celebrate in Skyhold.”

“And I already have my mask,” said Leliana curtly. “I quite like it. I will not have you ruin this opportunity for me, Commander.”

Cullen looked at Lavellan, as if trying to gather someone to his side.

Lavellan shrugged and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Commander. I’m with them. I already picked out my mask too.”

It was a wolf mask. Because Lavellan adored irony and terrible humour.

“Oh Commander, do not sulk,” crooned Josephine. “If we were in Antiva, the celebrations would last a week!”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. “Who can celebrate for that long?”

“Antivans,” said the other three in unison.

* * *

Satinalia was as rowdy as ever. Once Lavellan made his obligatory appearance and greeted dignitaries and visitors and made the rounds and spoke to the faithful, he snuck away. Lavellan peeled off the uniform of Inquisitor and slipped into comfortable clothes before throwing a cloak over himself. He stared at the wooden wolf mask in his hand, painted black and embellished with silver.

Lavellan wore it.

Would Solas wear a mask tonight?

Solas didn’t need Satinalia for the mask.

Lavellan descended and finally let loose. Herald’s Rest was full of patrons, Bull and his gaudy mask right in the thick of things while Varric hosted a table of Wicked Grace in a corner. Sera and Dagna talked animatedly upstairs. Lavellan sat in on Varric’s game.

“Deal me in, Master Tethras,” he said, voice changed slightly by the reverb of the mask.

Varric looked up with an easy smile, his wooden half-mask painted and lacquered. 

“A mysterious figure come to challenge us?”

“Come to take the whole pot, more like.”

“Put your coin where your mouth is, stranger,” he said and shoved the pot towards him.

Lavellan threw two silvers in, let Varric deal him in, and promptly won the whole pot after the round finished. He grinned behind his mask and relished the players’ incredulous remarks. They claimed it a fluke.

So Lavellan won the next pot.

And the next.

Varric threw his cards down in frustration. “Maferath’s balls, who the hell are you?”

Lavellan lifted his wolf mask and grinned. The entire table descended into chaos.

“Nobody will believe you,” he said and snuck away with a cackle, deliberately left his winnings on the table.

He did that for a while. Swooped in on activities, snuck into groups and shared a laugh or two, helped with menial chores such as preparing the food, and he either revealed himself or not. Depended on whatever struck his fancy. He joined the cheese wheel race that Blackwall was running (after he crossed paths with Josephine holding a bouquet with a gentle smile visible even through her golden mask). He lost to Sera and Dagna who had teamed up.

“Good try,” chuckled Blackwall as he clapped Lavellan on the back. “They keep winning though. I ran out of treats to give out.”

“Pit them up against each other and host a bet.”

He laughed. “Great idea. I like it.”

“I bet Josephine liked the flowers even more.”

Blackwall’s laughter died and he gave Lavellan a steady look, squinting. “How do you―” His eyes widened. “Inquisitor?”

Lavellan turned away. “Don’t know who that is.”

“ _Everyone_ knows who― Hey!”

But Lavellan was already running and crowing with mischievous glee. His raven perched on him momentarily, but he laughed and urged her to fly off.

“No, no, you’ll give me away! Go see if you can sneak small pebbles into people’s pockets or something.”

“Pebbles!” she said and flew.

He spotted Vivienne and Dorian walking across the battlements in conversation at one point, spectated on Scout Harding, Cassandra, and Leliana’s knife-throwing competition. Scout Harding won by a landslide.

As the night wore on, word of the Inquisitor in disguise had spread so Lavellan took a break from giving elderly Sisters a heart attack . He retreated to the battlements where a few people were gathered there, but it was still less crowded.

He hadn't seen Solas at all the whole night. Granted, Skyhold was large. Still, contrary to popular belief, Solas was no hermit who shied away from large celebrations. That was what he wanted others to believe while he joined the celebrations in his own, unassuming way.

Within a blink and a breath, there was Cole sitting on the battlements beside Lavellan. Not wearing a mask, but Cole had difficulty distinguishing between the masks and actual faces so Lavellan wasn’t surprised.

“Hello,” Lavellan greeted and took his mask off. “Are you enjoying tonight?”

“ _Fraught, harried, must get the pies out in time before it burns_. I calm her down. The pie isn’t burned. They all like it. The hurts are less, softer. They don’t need me tonight.” He turned to Lavellan, and fell quiet, a tad shocked. “It came off,” he said. “I didn’t know it came off.”

Lavellan smiled. “They’re masks Cole. You know my face. I couldn’t have possibly changed it.”

“Yes, you can.” Cole tilted his head. “ _Turn what hurts me into mine._ You wear him on you so it doesn’t hurt.” He looked away and watched the revelry beneath them.

The warmth and light from their fires danced and blurred in Lavellan’s vision and he managed to relax which was a luxury for him so he savoured the moment. These were the people he fought for. Fought with. Lavellan wanted to give them something more than tragedy and wanted to give himself more than distant worship.

“ _Words fall, flutter, and fracture her and I need to stop. Can’t stop. Maker, what’s wrong with me._ ” Cole stood. “She needs me,” he said.

Lavellan smiled at him. “Go on. I want everyone to be somewhat happy tonight. Even you.”

“I’m happy when I help,” he said and disappeared another breath and a blink later.

That left him alone once more. He observed for a while longer, smiling at the cheers and laughter, hoped the stones of Skyhold would remember the merriment, hoped it would triumph over the tragedies it had witnessed. Lavellan donned his mask on once more and continued his roaming. The shadow of Skyhold.

He had lost some of his anonymity due to his earlier antics so now a few recognised him from the cloak and mask.

Lavellan would still vehemently deny it was him and claim, “What’s an Inquisitor?”

Which earned him a few laughs.

He passed over Skyhold’s garden which was privy to lovers and soft conversations, and again wondered where Solas could be. After roaming the battlements, Lavellan noticed a figure atop the gatehouse watchtower, almost missed them because they blended in with the dark sky. Had they been there all that time?

Lavellan ascended that watchtower and joined them. The figure was observing the celebrations too, their back to him, but Lavellan already knew who it was.

Solas turned at his arrival. No mask. Or perhaps he had no need for one because he was already wearing it. He appraised Lavellan, eyes dancing with mirth as he pushed himself off the wall and clasped his hands behind his back.

“I heard a new game was created tonight,” was Solas’ greeting. “I believe the Inquisition has taken to calling it Find the Inquisitor. It’s quite the notoriously hard game, I heard.”

“You’ve heard many things,” Lavellan replied.

Solas smiled at Lavellan’s voice. Walked around him. “Do you know the rules of the game?”

Lavellan kept his gaze ahead and shrugged.

“I don’t believe so. I’m afraid I don’t know what an Inquisitor is, you see.”

“It began simply, but now it has grown in complexity. First, they must find the Inquisitor who is disguised. Some report he wears the mask of a bear, others a fox, others a wolf. That he would help or steal entire pots of winnings or frighten Chantry Sisters.”

Lavellan ducked his head and shook with silent laughter.

“If they spot him, they must engage him in conversation,” continued Solas. “Ask, ‘Are you the Inquisitor?’ and if his response is something along the lines of, ‘What is an Inquisitor?’ then you have found him. The game does not end there, though.”

Solas stopped circling and stood in front of him again, eyes alight. “You must then get close enough to unmask him. I heard this was difficult. He was deft and agile, as capricious as the shadow of a flickering flame, and he flees in mad glee.

Lavellan nodded. “Ah, yes. Mad glee. That makes sense.”

“If you are unable to physically unmask him, you must trick him into taking his mask off. Once he does, the game is won.”

“And what is the reward for unmasking this Inquisitor fellow?”

“That part they hadn’t quite gotten to. He hasn’t been caught yet, see.”

“I see. He seems tricky. Perhaps I should partake in the game.” He hadn’t realised the inhabitants of Skyhold had made a game out of his antics. “And who, pray tell, invented this game?”

“Master Tethras, I believe. Expanded upon by the spymaster. Who knows? They may have already devised a reward.”

That did sound like something those two would do. Lavellan chuckled and watched Solas, taking a step forward, tilting his head.

“Are you partaking in the game, then?” he asked.

“I already am,” he replied smoothly and grabbed the mask. Lavellan had no time to resist before Solas pulled it over his face, dropped the cloak’s hood in the process, and smiled at Lavellan’s dumbfounded look. “And I’ve already won. Hello, Inquisitor.”

He opened and closed his mouth like a displaced fish, before he snapped it shut with an indignant huff.

“There must be a mistake!” cried Solas. “He is not at all deft as they say.”

“Excuse me?” Lavellan scoffed in false affront, and just to prove a point, he ducked from Solas’ grasp and slipped behind him. He placed his arms on Solas’ shoulders and leaned into it. Solas bent from the sudden weight with a surprised, “ _Hrk_.”

“Who’s not deft now?” Lavellan challenged with a sunny grin.

“With all this weight, there is no way he is agile,” Solas challenged back.

“Ha!” He grabbed the wolf mask from Solas and put it back on. “Very well, I am indeed the Inquisitor. Guilty.”

Lavellan eased his weight off Solas and crossed his arms. Solas straightened and turned to face him once more, smile both entertained and fond as reflected by the look in his eyes, and Lavellan lost his bearings for a breath.

“What is my reward?” Solas asked.

He raised his brow. Not that Solas would see it.

“What do you want? A kiss? I only kiss the holy light of the Maker, I’ll have you know. I am a devout man.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you wear the Wolf.”

“Wolves are not limited to Fen’Harel,” he said. “Unless he has a monopoly on the wolf market which I never realised existed.”

Solas laughed, as warm as the light of the flames and the gaiety of the celebrations.

“So what have you been up to?” Lavellan asked. “Or have you been watching up here the whole night?”

“No, I only just got here minutes before you did. Earlier, I spoke with an Antivan philosopher for a good portion of the night. We discussed culture after he remarked that their celebrations would last a week followed by a week of fasting.” That did sound like something Solas would do. “And after, I came across a man challenging others to best him at Diamondback. I participated.” Solas looked entirely too proud of himself. “And became the next undisputed champion.”

“Alright, be honest. How many did you send away packing with barely anything to cover their bits?”

“Enough to amuse me.”

“You are terrible.” Lavellan laughed. “I suppose somebody managed to beat you since you’re no longer there.”

“No,” he said. “I just thought I’d give them a chance.”

Lavellan’s laughter doubled and he had to remove his mask because his breaths were too warm on his face.

“I see you’ve gotten into some mischief as well,” said Lavellan once his laughs dwindled.

“Not as much as you.”

He smiled down at the wolf mask, and Cole was right. Tonight, there was no room for sharp hurts. Tonight was a brilliant, anchoring lighthouse in the midst of the world’s tempestuous fury, where scattered laughter twinkled like the celestial bodies above.

“And so, you’ve won Find the Inquisitor,” mused Lavellan. “Have you thought of your prize yet?”

Solas smiled up at the stars. “I already have it,” he said.

“What is it?”

His smile fell upon Lavellan, ancient sins tainting it with sorrow.

“Something I am undeserving of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are holidays. In Thedas. Where is my in-game celebration, Bioware? Where is it? 
> 
> I don't know shit about chess except how to move the pieces and I had to trawl through chess forums for help and have come out with even more respect and appreciation for chess players because that shit's hard. 
> 
> One thing that always bothered me about Bull saying the Tal-Vashoth he encountered were all savage bastards was that Seheron was a really terrible place. Tal-Vashoth or not, anyone would crumble. They're not savage because they're Vashoth, they're savage because they've been forced to fight in a shithole. Even then, I doubt they were 'savage'. Likely suffering immense physical/mental/emotional stress and trauma. Also, they grew up under the Qun where their role was predetermined and those sent to Seheron were soldiers. That's all they've known their whole life. When you suddenly break away from the Qun, yea, you're gonna feel lost so you revert to something safe which for them is fighting. 
> 
> Also, I did not realise Alexius would become the grumpy grandfather but here we are. That beginning scene wrote itself.


	25. Stillness in the sands

_statuary in the waiting―_

* * *

At the end of Firstfall’s first week, an urgent letter from Hawke and Warden Stroud arrived.

He hastened his preparations and travelled to the Western Approach with Cassandra, Solas, Sera, and Bull, the journey taking just under two days, complete with the stops to camp for the night. Soon, the blistering heat swept over them upon arrival at the desert front and Lavellan forgot that it was supposed to be winter, forgot the concept of _cold_. His tunic stuck, his hair matted, sweat slid down his back.

But Creators, the _sand_. Wretched thing got everywhere. The forward camp was at least under shade. Small mercies.

“Inquisitor,” greeted Scout Harding at their arrival, tried to be cheery, but the heat and sand-strewn wind had dampened her spirits. “Welcome to the Western Approach.” There was sand in her hair. There was sand in his boots. There was sand everywhere. “Hawke and Warden Stroud went to investigate Warden movement in the southwest. The rest of us couldn’t get too close though. Between sandstorms and vicious wildlife and poison hot springs and a dragon that flew overhead… Well, this may just be the worst place in Thedas.”

His hollow laugh sounded exhausted, even to him. And he’d only been here for two minutes. They accepted the cloaks offered to them to make trudging through the desert bearable. 

“It’s alright Scout Harding,” he said. “You don’t have to hold back. This place _is_ terrible.”

Sera made a noise behind him. “I’ve got sand in… places.”

Harding grimaced in sympathy, hesitated for another second, before she launched into a tirade which had Lavellan and Sera in stitches, inhaling sand and dry heat in their laughter.

Lavellan’s throat must have been coated in sand by the time she'd finished. He coughed and rasped for water and Sera laughed at him and he spat the water out when another fit of laughter accosted him which continued the loop.

“Stop laughing!” he yelled, trembling from barely held back wheezes.

Cassandra sighed, grabbed him and Sera by the back of their cloaks, and dragged them away so they could meet up with Hawke. Scout Harding waved at them, beaming while his raven perched on his shoulders.

Once they left the small ravine, the open desert greeted them, the Gamordan mountains distant and faint from the shimmer of heat. Sand entered his boots. Somehow made their way down his pants. He cringed.

“Is there a place, _any_ place in the Maker-forsaken south, that isn’t either completely wet, completely cold, or completely hot and sandy?” griped Dorian.

“The Hinterlands,” answered Solas.

“The Hinterlands have been war-torn,” said Cassandra.

“Still kind of nice,” said Lavellan. “That area behind the farms? Really nice.”

“Crestwood was nice when it wasn’t raining,” said Bull.

“Veil was damp." Lavellan made a face. "And there was a drowned village filled with waterlogged bodies possessed by spirits.”

“Val Royeaux?” Bull offered.

“Full of prissy nobs,” said Sera.

“Full of racist, prissy nobs,” amended Lavellan. Solas made an agreeing noise and Sera scrunched her face.

“Well _I_ like the desert,” said Bull. “Sand looks gold, heat’s energising.”

Dorian gave him a squinted stare. “You’re only saying that because you heard about the dragon.”

“What? No.”

At that moment, a high dragon roared overhead and flew into the distance. Bull’s giddy laugh was entirely delighted.

“You’re right, fuck this place, but look. At. _That_! Are you seeing this?” He turned to Lavellan, eye glimmering. “We’re fighting her right, Mercy? _Tell_ me we’re fighting her!”

“If we get things sorted out here, maybe we can look into it.”

He pumped his fists in the air and Dorian rolled his eyes, but Lavellan didn’t miss his small smile.

The sun beat down on their backs and his nape burned so he pulled his hood up. They stumbled across remnants of what could have once been ancient Tevinter structures, now eroded to nothing but the odd column or tower. In the distance, however, stood the ritual towers which had persisted despite the time and sands.

There was a small spark of light in one of them. He and his companions looked at each other before they hurried towards it.

Warden Stroud and Hawke waited before the bridge to it, hiding behind the columns. They reconvened at the mouth of the bridge.

“What’s the situation?” Lavellan asked.

“A small group of Grey Wardens have gathered here,” said Stroud. “They’ve already begun the ritual.”

“It’s blood magic,” said Hawke. “I can feel it. We have to stop them before more people are hurt.” She nodded at the bridge. “Take point, I’ll take back.”

Lavellan nodded and they fell into formation. They unsheathed their weapons and crossed the bridge, ascended the stairs to the tower.

“No, wait,” whimpered a Grey Warden, backing away from his comrade. Knife out. Dorian cursed behind Lavellan as they spotted the remaining two Grey Wardens with demons beside them.

“Come now,” crowed the nasally voice of Magister Livius Erimond. Lavellan’s blood boiled. “Warden-Commander Clarel’s orders were clear.”

“This is wrong!” the Warden protested.

Erimond curled his lips. “Remember your oath: In war, victory, in peace, vigilance. In death…”

The Warden’s comrade slipped behind and stabbed him. Lavellan ran.

A small rift opened and a rage demon was pulled into the world. The Warden bound the demon, and with a wave of Erimond’s hand, bound the Warden. His smarmy smile had Lavellan itching to throw his dagger at him. Erimond spread his arms in welcome upon their arrival.

“Inquisitor! Now this is a pleasant surprise.” He bowed. “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

Stroud glowered. “You are no Warden.”

“But you are.” Erimond sighed. “The one Clarel let slip. And now you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?”

Lavellan watched the Wardens. Too late, they were bound, no better than walking corpses.

“It will go spectacularly,” said Lavellan, voice low and heavy with warning. “One of my daggers for each of your eyes. Should we see if it fits through the sockets?”

He chuckled. “If you can reach me, that is. Wardens, hands up.” He raised his hands and the Wardens followed. “Hands down.” They followed again and he laughed. “Would be a little difficult, no, Inquisitor?”

“Corypheus has taken their minds,” said Stroud.

“They did this to themselves.” Erimond clasped his hands behind his back and paced, as if he had all the time in the world. “You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help.”

Lavellan glanced back at Sera. Mouthed, “Nock.”

She readied an arrow, and he subtly gestured for her to wait.

“Even Tevinter,” muttered Stroud.

Erimond preened and went on and on. Evil Corypheus. Blah, blah, kill the Old Gods! Hey, look, blood magic, how neat! Ooh, spooky demon army.

“Demon army this, demon army that,” muttered Lavellan. “Are they at least getting paid for all their labour?”

“Such a kind soul you are,” Solas murmured dryly beside him, unheard by Erimond because he was still monologuing in the background. “Championing the cause of fair wages.”

“Fair wages are very important.”

“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Bull asked.

“Fair wages,” said Hawke solemnly. “It’s very important, he’s right. Know your worth.”

“Mercy, can I get a raise?”

“Are you kidding? How much do I already pay you?”

“Technically, Josephine pays us.”

“Can I shoot now?” asked Sera.

Lavellan glanced back at Erimond _still_ wasting precious air with his overblown brags and wasn’t it terrible protocol to reveal your plans to your enemies? Either this man was blinded by his confidence or his foolishness. Then again, he followed Corypheus. It really was unfair of Lavellan to expect anything from him.

“He’s _still_ talking?” Lavellan asked.

“You should be listening,” hissed Cassandra.

“I was,” said Lavellan. “Demon army, Grey Wardens, blood magic, killing Old Gods, Corypheus, Tevinter is better than you, the Venatori kiss darkspawn ass. What’d I miss?”

“He’s got it,” said Dorian.

And Erimond was still talking. Lavellan grunted.

“Sera,” he said and sidestepped just as her arrow sailed past and found its mark in Erimond’s shoulder. The leather of his armour had stopped most of it, but it was still enough damage.

He cried, cut off mid-monologue. Erimond raised his hand in desperation, connected with the Anchor in a bid to incapacitate Lavellan.

Lavellan strengthened the connection between them, overloaded the energy on his end, and severed the connection once the stirrings of a dull ache began. The expelled energy showered them in green and threw Erimond back.

“Ouch,” said Lavellan without any real sympathy. “This is not your day, is it?”

Erimond clutched a hand to his shoulder. “You fool! You don’t know what you’ve done! Now my master has to seek other ways into the Fade.”

“Tell him to try looking up his arsehole!” yelled Sera and loosed another arrow.

Erimond deflected it with a barrier and hobbled away.

“Wardens! Kill them!” he ordered.

Hawke fired a vicious yet controlled stream of electricity towards Erimond, the charge of it raising all the hairs on Lavellan’s arms. Erimond Fade-stepped away. She cursed but they had no time to chase him because the Wardens and demons fell upon them.

Demons or no, the Wardens were outnumbered and outmatched.

In the aftermath, Lavellan pursed his lips. What a waste of life. He couldn’t forgive what they'd done, but he could respect them at their deaths at the very least. Dying in unwilling servitude to Corypheus was one of the worst ways to die, especially for a Warden.

“You were right,” said Stroud to Hawke. “The mages are slaves to Corypheus.”

“And the Warden warriors have been sacrificed,” muttered Hawke and she looked down with a sigh. “What a waste.”

Lavellan crouched beside a dead Warden and moved their body into a less awkward position.

“Come help me with them,” he said.

“What are you doing?” asked Hawke.

“Lining them up for easy retrieval later. I’m sure their families would want to have the choice to bury or cremate them. If no family, we can at least afford to give them a respectful send-off.”

Cassandra was the first to step forward and help and the rest soon followed. It was a gruesome, morbid task, but they did it without complaint. After, Lavellan bowed his head and spent a moment in silence before he turned and walked away.

“I believe I know where the Wardens are, Your Worship,” murmured Stroud, the atmosphere grave. “Erimond fled in that direction. There’s an abandoned fortress that way. Adamant.”

Lavellan nodded. “Can you and Hawke scout the fortress? Confirm if they really are there.”

Hawke nodded. “Alright. We also spotted a keep west of here. Full of Venatori. Maybe you’d like to knock and take over.”

“I most certainly will,” he said. They needed a base of operations in the Western Approach so they could plan the siege on Adamant. It was far more efficient to plan here than return to Skyhold. The two-day trip wasn’t worth it.

They returned to camp to freshen up and eat before Lavellan dove into writing letters back to Skyhold. Letters to his advisors, and then letters to companions asking them to follow soon.

For the remainder of the day, he and his group chased rumours of the Venatori in the mines and stumbled across the remnants of the red lyrium experimentation which they'd now moved to Emprise du Lion. Later, they encountered the ruins where time had stopped. The Fade rift within hummed, but nothing else. Ambient magic which had built over the centuries congested the air and pushed into his throat like syrup.

Dorian squinted at the ancient Tevinter researchers, swept his gaze across the scene with a disgruntled sound but said nothing else. Bull poked a demon. Sera smacked his hand away from it with a shrill shriek.

Everybody jumped.

“Vishante kaffas!” cried Dorian. “Sera!”

“He was the one poking it!”

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Cassandra scolded. “We do not know what has caused this but I would rather we do not accidentally resume the chaos.”

They moved through the ruins and did exactly that.

“Why do I bother?” sighed Cassandra to herself as they hid in a corner while the demons and researchers duked it out. They stepped in once the Venatori cropped up. It seemed Corypheus was intrigued by the ancient research which went on here as well, and Lavellan couldn’t blame him because he was already wondering which of the Inquisition’s scholars to assign here. 

Dorian took ownership of the staff with the skull.

“If I’m going to be known as the untrustworthy and scary Tevinter mage, I may as well look the part,” he sniffed.

“You’re really not that threatening,” said Bull.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re like a pampered little cat, hissing and carrying on, but really, you’re just fluffy and small aren’t you,” he cooed.

Dorian pointed the skull at him. “And you’re an overexcited, slobbering goat.”

“Hey, goats are cool.”

Lavellan surveyed the ruins now free of the frozen rift, demons, and Venatori. The ancient researchers were on to something with the time magic. He just needed to know the mechanisms of it. It might explain his situation, hopefully, and give him an idea of whether he was stuck in a loop or if this was a last chance.

“Should I be worried about your fascination with time magic?” asked Solas.

“Be worried about everything I do,” Lavellan answered. “I’m not trying to pull an Alexius if that’s what you’re asking. It just interests me. Its mechanisms, their repercussions.”

“Can we please get the hell out of here?” asked Sera from near the door, rubbing her arms in discomfort. “This place makes my skin pucker.”

“Oh come now Sera,” teased Dorian. “It’s atmospheric.”

“It’s frigging creepy, it is! This and your… creepy skull! Why couldn’t you leave it? Who looks at a stick with some dead shite’s head on top all covered in blood and thinks it’s a good idea to swing it around?”

“What, and leave it here to be discovered by some other dreary Venatori? No, thank you. Besides, the staff was merely a conduit. It’s essentially just like any other staff. No special time magic imbued into it.”

“I _don’t_ wanna know!”

“Come on,” Lavellan said. “Sera’s right. This whole place feels like the taste of stale, morning-after ale in your mouth.”

“Colourful as always,” sighed Cassandra and he grinned.

* * *

They waited a few more days for the Inquisition forces to arrive so they could storm the keep Hawke had mentioned, and once they had that stable base of operations, truly began their preparations to storm Adamant. 

Most of the month’s first half was spent stabilising the Western Approach and sorting the issue of water for the keep. The rest of his companions had arrived with the soldiers.

Lavellan wasn’t blind to the strange tension between Bull and Solas though. It wasn’t dissentious, not really. More… anticipatory. Built like the pressure and fumes in an alchemical reaction and Lavellan waited for the cork to pop or the bottle to break. It had been like this ever since their return from the Coast.

They were on the way to an oasis to clear it of the varghests when Solas broke the silence.

“You are not Tal-Vashoth, Iron Bull. Not really.”

Bull shot him a hesitant glance as if it were a trick question. “Well that’s a fuckin’ relief. You know, Mercy said the same thing.”

Solas dug his staff into the sand to push himself along, humming in consideration. “I imagine he would.”

“Why’s that?”

“We understand you are no beast snapping under the stress of the Qun’s harsh discipline. You are a man who made a choice… possibly the first of your life.”

“I’ve always liked fighting,” Bull said, uncharacteristically soft. “What if I turn savage like the other Tal-Vashoth?”

Ahead of them, Cole tilted his head but said nothing.

“You have the Inquisition. You have the Inquisitor,” said Solas, before he paused. He looked at Bull and offered a smile. “You have me.”

Bull blinked at him before returning the smile. “Thanks, Solas.”

Lavellan observed the interaction with an uncertain frown. That… wasn’t what he'd expected. He watched the back of Solas’ hood as if that would give him the answer to his unknown question.

They reached the oasis but rather than kill the varghests, Cole suggested luring them to another oasis since they were the one disrupting them. This way, the varghests would live and have a new habitat, and the soldiers would have water. Once they scouted another oasis, they taunted the creatures, and that was how the four of them ended up running across the desert with three angered varghests hot on their tail.

Bull tripped.

“Man down, man down!” Bull shrieked.

It turned out alright, in the end.

They returned to the first oasis to ensure it was safe as a water source. All four of them collapsed beneath a single tree instead, enticed by the water and shade and prospect of rest. Cole refilled their skins and wet a cloth which he offered to Solas. Solas draped it over his head and Lavellan swore the cloth steamed. At least he was wearing shoes this time.

“Is your head burnt?” asked Lavellan.

“Ah, no. The cloak protected it from the sun and I have learned the magic to prevent sunburn on a bald head.”

Lavellan hadn't expected that either and he erupted into an exhausted laugh. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

Solas smiled. “Quite.”

They relaxed once more. A short reprieve amid the tense and stressful circumstances in the Approach. Always something new in this place. Be it chasing bandits away, running from varghests, or stumbling across the place where an Old God was sleeping beneath. Yes, _that_ was disconcerting. They had left immediately. He suspected that was where the Wardens intended to enter the Deep Roads if they succeeded. Which they wouldn’t.

At least, he hoped so.

“How do you feel, Iron Bull?” Solas asked after a blissful span of relaxation in quiet. “Do you need a distraction to focus your mind?”

“Area’s low on dancing girls, sadly. Unless one of you wants to slap on a skirt and a wig and dance?”

“Do you _really_ want to see that?” asked Lavellan and drank from his waterskin.

“Would be fucking hilarious, I think.”

Solas locked his hands over his stomach and leaned back. “King’s pawn to E4.”

“You’re shitting me.” Bull turned his head to scowl at Solas, his horns catching on a low-hanging branch. “We don’t even have a board!”

“Too complicated for a savage Tal-Vashoth?”

“Play nice, you two,” mumbled Lavellan as he pulled the hood over his eyes and reclined against the tree.

“Smug little asshole,” Bull grumbled. “Pawn to E5.”

“Pawn to F4. King’s Gambit.”

“Accepted. Pawn takes pawn. Give me a bit to get the pieces settled in my head. Then we’ll see what you’ve got.”

“I look forward to it.”

Bull grumbled further. “Hey Mercy, what’re his tactics?”

“Be careful when you think you’re winning,” said Lavellan.

“That’s really not helping.”

* * *

“Hey, Mercy?” asked Bull as Lavellan prepared the final dragon lure.

“Hm?”

“You’re the fucking best.”

“I know.”

* * *

His advisors arrived by the end of the second week and they planned the assault on Adamant before Warden-Commander Clarel could do anything drastic. The spies Leliana had sent reported that the Wardens had moved their plans forward but they couldn't determine anything else.

More of the Inquisition’s forces arrived with Dagna among them. She arrived with a beam and an intimidating stack of crates arrayed behind her.

“Inquisitor!” she chirped. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” She twirled a crowbar in her hand and handed it to him with a flourish, patted the uppermost crate. “Would you like to do the honours?”

Lavellan took it. “What’s this?”

She rocked on the balls of her feet, grin widening somehow. “Open it!”

Some of his companions came to check what the fuss was about.

“What’s this, Widdle?” asked Sera.

“He has to open it first.”

Lavellan pried the crate open and unfolded the cloth, before he gasped. Dagna was practically vibrating on the spot.

“So what do you think? If I hadn’t helped Harritt, he would still be on the second one! He’s great but no offence, a little inefficient so I sped things up a little but don’t be mistaken! Quality isn’t affected whatsoever! Do you like it?”

He took out the twin daggers he had commissioned, lazurite blades dark and gleaming with a touch of a violet sheen when the light hit it right. Runes had been inscribed on each fuller ― one faintly glowed a vivid red, the other gold. Lavellan tested their weight, how they felt in his hands.

“It’s perfect,” he breathed.

Dagna’s face gleamed like the sun. “You see the one that glows red? Careful with that one! You cut with it and it’ll feel like the wound’s on fire so, uh, maybe don’t wave it around?”

Lavellan promptly grabbed the sheath that came with it and put it back.

“The gold one’s good against demons! And undead. And uh, anything that’s not alive? Biologically speaking that is. Alive, not alive, binary classifications assigned to― Well, never mind!”

“You’re so frigging cute,” Sera muttered behind him, sounding dangerously close to squishing her.

“Sera, I got you your arrows! It explodes on cont―”

She didn’t finish the rest of her sentence because Sera was already hugging Dagna.

The companions who made requests for new weapons or armour came forward and opened theirs, praising the craftsmanship or the enchantments. Dagna approached Lavellan after explaining to the others the properties of their gear.

“Whew, I’m glad the reception was great,” she said. “I was worried for a minute.”

“They’re brilliant, Dagna. I’m impressed you got them done so quickly.”

“I got very excited,” she admitted. “And so did everyone who worked on them. I haven’t quite finished the hook and chain you wanted. Some bits just aren’t clicking yet, you know? But I think I’m close to figuring something out so I guess, what I’m saying is, you’re not allowed to die yet.”

He blinked down at her.

She wagged her finger at him. “And I’ve got an idea for your raven too! I was thinking we could fit her with a kind of surveillance or recording equipment so she can be your own little feathery spy. I’ve got so many amazing things lined up. You _have_ to see them.”

“Alright Dagna,” he said and held out a fist. She bumped it. “No dying until I see the cool things you’ll make.”

“I take fist bumps very seriously, Inquisitor,” she warned gravely.

“I can believe that.”

Adamant had been brutal, last he remembered. The Wardens were difficult enemies, the demons more so, and he knew that no matter what he did, it would be bloody and arduous, so Lavellan personally trained the scouts in fighting demons. Did his best to prepare them. He feared they’d be too intimidated of him but it proved the opposite and they learned fast.

The other problem was the journey through the Fade. He scanned his companions, determined who would take to the physical journey well so he could allocate the teams. Last time, Solas, Cole, and Sera had fallen with him. Sera and Cole hadn't taken it well so he’d station them to the battlements, far away from him. Varric then. Cassandra maybe? Bull? Dorian? No, better limit the mages. Dorian and Vivienne had different views to Solas regarding the Fade.

He watched the sands stretching into the distance and sighed.

“This is going to be shit.”

* * *

The door to Adamant splintered from the battering ram and Lavellan led the Inquisition with a rallying cry, wreathed in the flames of his elixirs.

It was dark and cold, and blood baptised his daggers. Fitting. The Herald of death.

They worked their way through Adamant, navigated the chaos, convinced a few Wardens to stand down, slashed and stormed his way through the ranks. He assigned his fighters to help on the battlements and pursued Warden-Commander Clarel. Crashed their little blood magic party.

Lavellan used some of the Wardens’ doubts to convince them that this was inane. Countered Erimond.

Then came the Maker-damned dragon.

“Oh, there it is,” Lavellan said blithely and rolled away from the stream of its fire as demons poured from the rift Clarel had opened which included a hulking Pride demon. A few of the Wardens helped. Lavellan truly adored the bonding experience that came with the realisation of betrayal and the crushing weight of guilt. A spectacular way to spend a Wednesday evening.

With the Pride demon defeated, he pursued Clarel and left the rest of the demons to the Wardens. Solas, Bull, Varric, and Cassandra followed.

He gave them a look over his shoulder as they ran.

“Save it,” said Bull. “Not getting us to leave.”

“What he said,” said Cassandra.

Lavellan snorted and laughed, faced forward once more.

“I was going to say thank you, you cretins.”

“Am I a cool cretin?” asked Bull.

“Bash a few more demons in the face and I’ll think about it.”

“Fuck yeah.”

They followed Clarel, quite literally hot on her coattails. The blighted dragon coasted overhead.

Lavellan’s raven swooped and soared over them. Cawed twice. Swerved away. Lavellan poured the flask of frost over his armour as they turned the corner and ran into a rage demon who froze upon contact.

“Get out of here!” he told his raven. “There’s a damned dragon sharing air space!”

She cawed indignantly but obeyed.

Cassandra smashed and shattered the demon with her shield.

Hawke and Stroud met up with them again. The bridge approached and Lavellan had no time to hesitate, flexed his fingers instead in preparation of what was to come.

Clarel and Erimond hissed and spat at one another, traded blows with their spells and magic. They stopped where the bridge ended and Clarel fired a well-placed shot at Erimond. He fell.

Erimond inched towards the edge of the bridge but Clarel blocked his path and blasted him with another stream of lightning. He skidded back. Spasmed on the ground for a few moments.

He curled into a ball. “You could have served a new god,” he croaked.

“I will _never_ serve the Blight.”

Corypheus’ dragon swerved towards them and Lavellan sprinted, yelled for Clarel to move. Too late.

The dragon landed, snatched her in its mouth. Jagged teeth snapped shut.

Crunched.

It flew and perched on one of the spires, threw her body away as if she were stuffed with straw. Clarel laid motionless, blood staining the stones.

“Shit,” hissed Hawke.

The dragon crept towards them, blocking their only exit. Lavellan eyed the edge.

Here lay the abyss.

Clarel pushed herself up. Stroud made a choked and relieved sound. She made a valiant effort of crawling towards her staff, the dragon hovering directly over her.

She held her hand up against it.

Released an impressive spell which sent the dragon crashing, its large body and desperate clawing destroying the ancient stones of the bridge. It fell over the edge with a cacophonous screech.

But the stupid thing could fly and off it went on its merry way to lick its wounds while Lavellan’s team sprinted away from the crumbling edge.

It was no use.

As they plummeted towards an unforgiving drop, Lavellan reached, as if he were to open a sunder. But not this time. Not a punch, not a clean hole through. He grasped the Veil.

 _Cleaved_ it open as lightning and fire tore into his bones, goring the muscle of his arm. Lavellan couldn’t even scream.

The rift yawned wide.

And they fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erimond can choke on a rotting grape skin since he jacks off to Corypheus so much. They look the same. Practically twins. Rotting grape skin = Corypheus. Don't @ me, I'm right.
> 
> Listen, I know I said I'd slow updates down to once a week starting from now but listen, listen, I'm a bit excited to throw the Fade chapters at you SO I'm extending it to another week. Bi-weekly updates will continue until next week and then for real, slow down to every Thurs.
> 
> The Western Approach is pretty in that barren desert kind of aesthetic but I hate it anyway because companion banter doesn't fire there so what's the point?


	26. Assemblage of the asinine

_meld sinew into wine―_

* * *

Lavellan fell skywards.

But the sky was beneath him, and above him, the earth. A simulacrum of the sun peered through the gaps of the mighty stone pylons adrift in the space, its light strident against the green skies.

He hovered to a near stop, the ground stretching above him. Lavellan reached.

The world finally recalled the laws it was meant to operate on and violently upended, dumped him on the ground. He fell with a grunt, vision swimming with green. Once his vision settled and he regained his bearings, he pushed himself up—

Bombarded immediately by the sensation that he was _wrong_.

Lavellan sucked in a harsh breath through clenched teeth. The sensation pressed into him, needles breaching, branching. An opposing tide roared within him, battered against the needles, but all it did was splinter them and scatter fragmented thorns in his bloodstream. Lacerated his nerves.

“We were falling,” groaned Stroud.

“And now we’ve landed,” grunted Hawke, hand clutched to her head.

Solas stared upon the aberrant sky with the same wonder as before. “We’re in the Fade,” he breathed. “Physically! Look, the Black City, close enough to touch.”

“You _would_ be excited,” said Varric as he picked himself up off the ground.

“Oh yeah, must be a dream come true for your crazy ass,” said Bull.

“Quite literally,” Solas replied.

“Explains why it looks different then,” said Varric. “Hey Hawke, remember when we went to the Fade?”

“You mean when all my friends betrayed me?”

He chuckled nervously. “We… got better?”

Hawke huffed but there was no real venom behind it.

“How did this happen?” asked Cassandra.

“I opened a rift,” said Lavellan and his voice was _wrong_. Wrong how? It sounded the same, he said the words the same, but it just wasn’t right. Too rigid. Too fluid. Too… _something_. It hadn't been like this last time. What was wrong with him?

Lavellan hugged himself, the others' discussion dulling in his ears. He was a string, a tight coil, and he was unravelling like a thread pulled from the hem. His skin felt too tight and too loose all at once. He scrunched his eyes shut, vacillating between the vertices and the vestiges.

“Inquisitor?”

Lavellan opened his eyes. Solas looked upon him with concern, his companions still arguing and discussing ahead.

“Are you alright?”

He meant to say, “Yes,” but all that came out was a choked whimper.

Solas stepped closer, shielding him from the others' sight. “Visions?” he asked.

“No.” He looked down at his tremulous hands. Melting. Caged. “I feel like the wrong ends of a magnet being forced together. Repelling but something is pushing. What’s wrong with me?”

Solas frowned at him, opened his mouth to speak, but was disrupted when Bull asked, “You alright, Mercy?”

Lavellan pressed his lips and shut it away. Shut that sensation away. He needed to go. They needed him to go, to function, to lead.

“Fine,” he said and walked ahead, steps heavy yet light, and patted Solas in thanks on the way. “Let’s get out of here.”

The Fade was as he remembered. The sky was a shift of green, obelisks of stone reached upwards, and pools of water glimmered like thick metal. Fragments of the real world had assembled here. A length of wall of Marcher origin here, another of Fereldan make over there. There were stone statues with Orlesian ornamentation, columns and arches from bygone ages. All of them had been assembled into something that mimicked the real world in a way that it was _just_ right but also on this side of wrong. Uncanny. Unsettling.

“ _Hey, Chief, let’s join the Inquisition! Good fights for a good cause!_ ” Bull said, mimicking Krem’s voice (though it sounded nothing like him). “I don’t know Krem, I heard there were demons. _Agh, don’t worry about the demons, Chief! I’m sure we won’t see many!_ ” He grumbled under his breath. “Asshole! Guys, if I get possessed, feint on my blind side then go low. Cullen says I leave myself open.”

Varric shot him a concerned look. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

A soft glow in Lavellan's periphery caught his notice.

He turned his head, found a lone table with a golden, humanoid wisp sitting upon a chair. Lavellan tilted his head, drawn to its presence. He hadn't realised he was approaching until Cassandra pulled him back by the collar like a huffed mother bear.

“And _where_ are you going?” she asked. “Do not wander.”

“Yes,” said Solas. “Your emotions and intentions will shape the environment around you. Stay focused, and we will be out of here before you know it.”

Lavellan held her wrist and gently pried it off, marvelled at how… solid she was. How solid he wasn't. Or maybe he was _too_ solid.

“Wait,” he murmured and neared it. The wisp turned its head at his arrival but said or did nothing else.

But Lavellan could feel its fear. Timorous and trembling. He crouched beside the chair, held his hand out, and the wisp reached for him.

And he _felt_.

They were once a pilgrim, faith aflame within their heart as they came to the Conclave to help. To serve the Maker. They prayed for peace, but instead, the mountains fell and trapped them and crushed their legs and oh, the darkness descended. Ravenous, hissing, cackling. A fear of a world without a Maker with only gloom and rot and fading within dreams.

Light. Where was the light? Lead the way, be a guide for the final hours. Without terror, without confounding blackness.

Lavellan stood and surveyed the area. His emotions and intentions could shape the Fade? Good. Give him light, something small, something warm.

On a nearby stone rested a red candle, its small flame flickering. Lavellan took the candle and returned, placed it on the table.

“A light to guide you,” he murmured.

The wisp reached for the candle and vanished with a breath, dissipated with the flame, and left naught but a melted stub. Calm enveloped him and the feeling of wrongness abated, if a little. He could now at least function and think better.

“What was that?” asked Varric.

“They were afraid,” said Lavellan. “They were at the Conclave, buried under mountain and stone. They wanted light. I gave them light.”

“At the Conclave?” asked Cassandra. “What do you mean?”

“It must have been a soul,” said Solas. "Trapped here in the Fade because of the spirit which commands this domain. The Inquisitor set them free by removing what had trapped them here.”

“Which is?”

“Fear.” Solas looked around him. “We must be in the domain of a variety of fear demon.”

“Oh fan-fucking-tastic,” said Bull.

Solas frowned at Lavellan again. “How did you realise?”

Had Lavellan noticed the souls before? No, he didn’t think so.

“They were stuck here,” Lavellan explained. “It wasn’t right, so I changed it.”

“Well, that’s cryptic,” muttered Varric.

Frustration crawled beneath his skin. It was not. It made perfect sense but they weren’t looking. It was a simple chain of thinking!

“Makes sense to me,” he said, did his best to keep his irritation out of it.

“Their state of stagnancy is wrong because souls are not meant to linger in the Fade,” said Solas. “Is that what you were trying to say?”

“That. And they were scared. Lingering here scares them, but they linger here because they’re scared. It’s a cycle. It’s terrible. I hate it. I hate whoever has this domain.”

“So did you just essentially ferry a soul through the Fade?” asked Hawke.

“I guess?”

“Is there _anything_ you wouldn’t save?”

Lavellan didn’t even pause. “Coryphefuss,” he said, lamenting that Sera wasn’t here to start a chain of terrible names for Corypheus. One of their rounds had gotten so terrible once that they had to end it at _Carp of the Foots_. Then again, it was a good thing she wasn’t here otherwise she’d lose her shit. Creators knew Lavellan was.

They fought through their first wave of demons and took different paths before they finally found one which would lead them up.

“There,” said Hawke. “A way up.”

They ascended the steps though they didn’t get any further, stopped by the sight of the figure in the Chantry robes glaring like a beacon against the dreary emerald backdrop of the Fade.

Cassandra let out a shaky exclamation.

“Divine Justinia?” Cassandra asked, like a child asking for their parent after a nightmare. “Most Holy?”

Divine Justinia smiled. “Cassandra,” she greeted, nodding at the rest of them with a serene smile.

Cassandra tightened her grip on her sword even as her expression shifted from the vulnerability of her sorrow. “Be wary, Inquisitor,” she warned. “We know the spirits lie.”

“Right, at this point, I’m convinced I’m in a nightmare,” said Varric.

Justinia clasped her hands in front of her. “You are almost correct,” she said. “The demon who holds dominion over this domain serves Corypheus. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It grows fat upon the memories of fear and darkness. The false Calling which terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work. And now, Inquisitor, it has taken your memories too.”

Stroud scowled. “I would gladly avenge the insult this Nightmare dealt my brethren.”

“No,” said Hawke, “stop that. Are you all really going to believe this immediately? How could the Divine have survived the Fade?”

“You are all here physically, are you not?” Justinia asked.

“That’s different. We’re here because of the Inquisitor’s mark.”

“And I am here for the same reason.”

“Who is _I_ , exactly?” asked Hawke. “A demon? What are you?”

“I am here to help.”

“Really? Because from what I hear, and correct me if I’m wrong because it’s not like the entirety of Thedas went to shit when it happened, you died at the Conclave or at least got stuck here. You called him Inquisitor. You couldn’t possibly know that.”

“Couldn’t I? I have examined memories like his, stolen by the Nightmare demon.” She returned her attention to Lavellan. “When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it.”

Did he try to do something different in the Fade after the Conclave?

“These are your memories, Inquisitor.” She nodded at a small group of wraiths roaming the field ahead.

“Those are demons,” grunted Bull. “They’re not looking very memory-like to me.”

“They safeguard the shards of his memories. Defeat them and you will free the memories.”

“That makes no sense but I just walked under a floating rock so what the fuck do I know.”

They dealt with the demons, easily taken care of.

Lavellan eyed the shards of memory glimmering on the ground, glanced at Divine Justinia in uncertainty. She nodded in encouragement and he took a deep breath, gathered the scattered shards of memory, erratic and luminous in his hands.

The memories of the Conclave and his meeting with Corypheus flashed in everyone's mind.

Lavellan shook his head once the visions ended, the emotions of the event returning to him like a slow-falling curtain.

“Well that was a blast,” muttered Varric.

“So your mark did not come from Andraste?” asked Stroud as he recovered. “It came from the orb Corypheus used in his ritual.”

Solas glanced away. Cassandra looked as gutted as she did after Lavellan had stabbed her.

“Corypheus intended to use the power within the orb to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City,” said Justinia from behind them. “When the Inquisitor disrupted his plans, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon him instead.”

“For future reference, please never knock a magical item of considerable power onto the floor ever again,” Lavellan said. “What if it broke?”

“ _That’s_ your concern?” Varric asked.

It was a very real concern. He couldn’t let it break, not this time. “Look, a lot of weird things have happened to me,” said Lavellan in a bid to defend himself. “The only way I can function is if I compartmentalise the weird things.”

“That’s great and all,” said Bull, “but how do we actually get the hell out of here?”

“You cannot leave the Nightmare’s lair until you regain all that it took from the Inquisitor,” she said. “It now knows you’re here. Make haste. I will prepare the way ahead.” She turned and walked. His companions shared a look before they followed, but they lost sight of her after she turned at a column of stone.

Cassandra sighed, finally able to slacken the tension threaded through her spine.

“Was that really Most Holy?” she asked.

Lavellan squeezed her shoulder. She was likely a spirit of Hope or Faith who was drawn to Divine Justinia’s convictions, and had taken on her identity and memories.

“We don’t know, but she wants to help,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Well she hasn’t bribed us or tried to possess us so far. Good signs, right?”

“I’m more concerned about this Nightmare demon,” said Hawke.

Varric made a disdainful noise. “Sounds like it preys on fear. Steals people’s memories. Low, even for a demon. Memories make us who we are, what we are. Every mistake, every regret, it builds us and lets us grow and learn.” His fervour and conviction spilled with every word and Lavellan recalled all the reasons why he liked Varric. “A monster that takes them away? I don’t want to think about that.”

Solas had been silent so far.

Lavellan sent him a discreet look. He was busy taking everything in, listening to the conversation, observing his surroundings, lingering, existing, almost slipping into obscurity. Of course he was comfortable here. The roamer of the Beyond.

They continued through the Fade. Another friend of theirs had been silent too. The Nightmare demon’s taunts hadn’t come yet.

Of course, just as he thought that―

“Ah, we have a visitor,” purred a deep and gravelly voice. Almost soothing if not for the vestiges of its echoes in Lavellan’s head. “Some foolish little boy come to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders.”

“I hate the talky ones,” grumbled Bull.

“You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay. Forgotten.”

Lavellan powered through and slayed demons.

“You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fear is _me_.”

Lavellan counted his flasks. Six left.

“But you are a guest, here in my home. By all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”

The others stared at Lavellan who still wasn’t paying the demon any attention.

“Hey, uh, you’re hearing this right?” asked Bull.

“Hm? Oh yeah. I tuned it out.”

The Nightmare demon chuckled. “Such courage,” it crooned. “Here you are, trying to change things, but it will all amount to nothing. Nothing you do will change anything. You will make the same mistakes and everyone will suffer for it and you will succumb to your rage once more. What will your followers do when their guiding flame becomes a forest fire?”

Lavellan clenched his jaw.

“They will snuff it out.”

“I have heard of trees with seeds that only germinate in a forest fire,” said Solas, undercutting the Nightmare’s ominous words. 

“Come to your rescue, has he?” mocked the Nightmare. “Your shining knight? Or the shadow licking and biting at your heels?” The corners of Solas’ mouth tightened. Any semblance of reassurance Lavellan might have gotten from Solas’ earlier remark vanished. “Tell me, little boy. What will he do if he finds out, if they all find out, about the truth of you?”

All the blood fled his face. It wouldn’t dare—

The others looked back at Lavellan with mixed reactions, all of them unsure.

The Nightmare laughed, booming and cacophonous. “Your terror is _delightful_. So much to work with.”

Lavellan had no clever words to retort with, off-kilter and outbalanced, but the Nightmare said nothing else. It had gotten what it wanted. For all its taunts, it would never reveal the truth of someone because reconciliation could follow despite the initial fear. It was enough to dangle the threat of discovery. No reconciliation then. Only the constant dreading, constant waiting for an unseen fall.

“We all have something to hide,” said Solas. “Come, lethallin. Pay it no heed. Let us recover yourself and find a way out of here.”

Lavellan couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I thought this was a dream come true for you.”

“Not in the company of Fear.”

He still felt rigid and raw and wrong, but Lavellan found another burst of determination and pushed through.

Eventually, he felt the pull of another dreamer's fear and he followed the pull, found a skeleton crumpled in a niche with a golden wisp filling the spaces between the bones. The way its light spilled through the ribcage gave the impression of imprisonment. Lavellan offered his hand again. The dreamer stretched a tendril of light towards him.

Regret, guilt, pride burbled and dripped from the freeholder's lips, veins setting themselves alight. The Blight had taken the land. The freeholder stayed and tended his fields even as the poison took their crops, their livestock, his family, himself. In his delirious fever dreams, the poison would take the world. Foolish in his pride, had paid the price with life. His and his family’s.

This poison could not take everything. Reveal the endurance of life, the survival of this world.

_Some seeds only germinate in a forest fire._

Lavellan straightened and wandered the surroundings as his companions watched on in interest. Seed. New life, growing in a pile of ashes and―

On a small and dry patch of land, a lone flower grew. Lavellan waded through the water — which behaved normally except it wasn’t _wet_ — to pluck it, and returned to the soul. He knotted the stem around one of the ribs, over where he thought the heart would be.

“Life returns," he said. "No poison can deter it."

The soul pulsed with a warm glow before fading, draining the red from the flower which left the petals pristinely white. More of the calm enveloped him. The wrongness faded further.

“There,” he murmured and they continued, Solas shooting him curious looks the whole way.

As they navigated the Fade, they came across small manifestations of their fears. Hawke expressed her distaste at the spiders, but everybody saw something different. Lavellan had faced versions of his sister last time, possessed by varying types of demons which took him back to when he was a small, frightened child who would hug tiny Ellana in her sleep in the hopes that it would keep the demons away.

This time, Lavellan stared down Cassandra. Cassandra as she had been in the ~~future~~ past, aged, her hair longer, smiling sadly as blood slipped down her lips and Lavellan couldn’t breathe. The world collapsed around him. He jerked back and collided against the actual Cassandra who steadied him and he flinched away from her too, hands slick—

“Inquisitor, look out!”

One of the Fear-Cassandras took the dagger protruding from her stomach and slashed at Lavellan. He just managed to dodge it.

Lavellan took a step back. And another. And another. He retreated while she advanced.

“Why?” she asked, features twisting in her anguish. “I was loyal, I was faithful! Yet you repaid me with death!”

Trapped. He couldn’t raise his daggers or his arms, stared ashen-faced at her, unable to avert his gaze from the wound in her stomach.

“They’re not real!” cried Hawke and shouldered him out of the way. She eviscerated Fear-Cassandra with a bright flash of electricity and Lavellan ground his teeth at her tormented cry.

“Stop,” he gasped, pulling at Hawke’s arm.

“It’s not real,” she affirmed and resisted his admittedly weak tugs. “Whoever you're seeing, it’s not them.”

They defeated the fearlings. The ensuing silence strangled him and he dropped his daggers, covered his face with trembling hands.

How in the Dread Wolf’s great heaving ass was that a minor fear?

It wasn’t. The Nightmare demon must have taken offence and now Lavellan was suffering for it. Said Nightmare demon laughed which confirmed his suspicions.

“Poor Inquisitor Lavellan,” it cooed. “What did you see? Go on and tell them. Is death the way you repay loyalty? Look how they fight for you. Do they know their service will end with your blade in their chests? You kill the traitors, you kill the devoted. You destroy everything you touch.”

“Untrue,” scoffed Cassandra, sneering at the sky. “We receive weekly shipments of fresh produce from the Hinterlands, brimming with letters from thankful refugees. Daily, we shelter those in need. He has made a space of peace and faith and hope and he fights to defend it. The only thing he destroys is the poison from those who would seek to corrupt that peace. Beings such as you.”

“Yeah, so you better watch out,” Bull taunted.

Lavellan pulled his hands down slightly, stared wide-eyed at them over his fingers.

The Nightmare’s response was another laugh. “Look at your defenders! Commit this image to memory for recollection when you inevitably fail them.” And it left them in a silence that crushed his ribs like a shoe would a fallen autumn leaf.

“Solas is right,” said Cassandra, eyes blazing, faith so terribly misplaced. “Pay it no heed.”

_But the Nightmare was right, it was right and I’ve doomed you all before and who’s to say it won’t happen again—?_

“It’s trying to hit where it hurts, don’t mind it,” said Varric before his tone and expression softened. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said. Reflex at this point.

“No, you’re not,” said Hawke.

Lavellan picked his daggers up and sheathed them, let the hilt hit the sheath’s rim with an air of finality. “I said I’m fine. Let’s go.”

“Hey, slow down,” said Bull. “We can rest for a bit, let you breathe for a while.”

“Indeed,” said Solas. “The Nightmare has made an exception of you. Whatever you saw were clearly not minor fears.”

Lavellan turned. “It’s fine. I said it’s fine. Leave it alone.”

“You are not,” Solas insisted.

Lavellan gnashed his teeth and whirled on them, spat, “What, you all want to lord over me how right you are _that_ much?” His face fell immediately after the outburst, regret swift to surface as his companions stared at him in varying degrees of surprise. Solas merely frowned. “Shit,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. That was— That was uncalled for. I’m sorry. Please, just… leave it.”

“Worship, we are only worried about you,” said Stroud. “Truthfully, how are you? You know we will accommodate for you as you would no doubt do for us.”

“I’m surviving,” he said. “Accommodate for me by continuing.”

He pushed through. It was the only thing he could do. For a choking second, the world-weariness returned to press on his shoulders, tempted by the overwhelming urge to fall on the ground and never get up. But no. He pressed onwards.

The world waited for no one. Either flow with the currents or smash into a rock.

His companions followed but they all shot each other uncertain looks and Lavellan ignored some of their stares.

As they searched for the Divine, they came across the fear of another soul — a Grey Warden who had succumbed to the Calling, fearing that they'd walked to their death. They cursed their fate, their destiny of supposed glory and eventual death.

They wanted the choice. This death would be theirs, not an unseen hand of fate, not the merciless wheel of destiny.

Lavellan's heart and spirit shrivelled in its sympathy. Others welcomed the notion of destiny and the judgement of some greater power guiding their actions, but Lavellan couldn’t find it in him to accept that all his hardships, all his suffering, had been guided by some higher power. Let this be his choice. Let the burdens and the sacrifices be his, because for it to be otherwise was cruel.

Destiny. How to break destiny?

His gaze locked onto an object floating in the waters of a nearby puddle. Lavellan retrieved it.

It was a tarot card depicting a skull with an unhinged jaw, eye sockets covered by the wings of a red butterfly. The banner beneath read: Fate.

Lavellan returned to the soul, ripped the tarot card, and placed it in the cauldron beside the soul.

The soul rushed forward, filling the cauldron and swirling within its depths, before it passed on. At the bottom of the cauldron laid a new card. Whole and not ripped.

Fate had become Change.

He picked it up. The card now depicted a two-headed raven with the tips of its wings aflame. When Lavellan reversed it, the raven became a skeleton of itself, one of the heads severed as the remaining head cawed skywards in grief. The word on the banner became _Entropy_. Another reversal reverted the card back to the original two-headed raven with _Change_ written on the banner.

“What’ve you got there?” asked Varric.

“Something ominous,” said Lavellan and pocketed it.

They kept going. The Nightmare continued taunting the lot of them on the way and it either strengthened their conviction or channelled their anger towards it because everybody here was just sick of this shit. But Lavellan could tell, somehow, that while the Nightmare was growing stronger, it was also growing more frantic as Lavellan's group advanced.

They reunited with Divine Justinia, staring out at the demons crawling a small distance away from them.

“The Nightmare is closer now,” she said. “It knows you seek escape. With each moment, it grows stronger. More of your memories are scattered here.”

“Then let’s continue to be ill-mannered guests,” said Lavellan and descended upon the demons.

Once taken care of, he regathered his memories once more. It was as before. Justinia reached her hand out for him as he climbed an impossibly vertical staircase which may as well be a textured wall, the spiderlings close behind. She grabbed and pulled him up.

This time though, Lavellan made sure Justinia was in front as they ran.

“Keep running!” he urged, looked over his shoulder.

And the Nightmare demon bore down upon them. Too many eyes, pocks across the carapace of its colossal arachnid body.

“Where do you think you’re going?” it bellowed. “What terrible guests you are.”

One of the spiderlings caught Lavellan’s leg and he staggered.

“No!” Justinia cried and ran back for him.

He waved his hands at her. “Get to the rift, don’t worry about me!” He slashed at the spiderling and severed its legs off him. Lavellan stared up at the Nightmare’s many eyes, its jaws opening and closing as its teeth undulated. It reached for him.

Justinia shoved him out of the way. The Nightmare’s grip closed around her instead.

“No!”

Lavellan reached, brushed against her hand―

“Go,” she whispered.

The Nightmare dragged her away with a discordant cackle.

Lavellan roared in frustrated anguish at the expanse of the Fade. He slashed at the spiders closest to him in his fury before he turned and ran for the rift.

Their vision flooded with white as he passed through the rift and they returned to the present. Lavellan clutched his head. The stirrings of a headache pressed at his cranium as the emotions flooded into him, the feeling of _wrongness_ exacerbating his current one as memory and reality overlaid. It seemed he'd felt like shit in the Fade then too. But why?

He shook it off and looked at the Divine, crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried.”

Her eyes saddened. “I know. Thank you.”

Divine Justinia closed her eyes and she shed her corporeal form, blinded them all with the transformation as the spirit shone through. When they opened their eyes, a golden spirit hovered over them, taking on the rough silhouette of the Divine, all the way to the Chantry hat she'd worn. Filaments of light drifted in the halo of her radiance.

And Lavellan could _feel_ it. Felt what the spirit was embodying.

“You’re a spirit of Faith,” he said.

She looked upon him but he could no longer see her face to determine her thoughts.

“If that is the story you wish to tell, it is not a bad one.”

“But it isn’t a story, is it? You _are_ Faith.”

“Either way,” said Hawke. “What we do know is that the mortal Divine perished at the Temple.” She narrowed her eyes at Stroud. “Thanks to the Grey Wardens.”

Stroud scowled back and they erupted into an argument about the Wardens. Lavellan’s headache throbbed and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Faith hovered, patient, waiting.

“Maker, could all of you please _shut up_ ,” he snapped. The calm he'd earned from easing the fears of the dreamers dissipated and he was back to enduring the shattering needles of discordance.

Lavellan pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes. The argument trailed away. He bit the inside of his cheek and reined in his whimpers.

“Arguing isn’t helping,” he said, forced his voice out despite the overwhelming need to bury his fingernails into the first layer of his skin and shred it off. “We can all yell at each when we’re not being threatened by a literal embodiment of fear.”

Shrill shrieks rent the air.

Spiderlings descended upon them along with more fearlings. Lavellan tore his gaze away from the dead Cassandras.

“The Nightmare has found us,” said Faith. She rose and disappeared in a shower of golden light.

“No shit, really?” grumbled Bull.

Stroud and Hawke looked at each other, then nodded. A truce. They situated themselves beside Lavellan and his companions fell into position.

“Take care of the minor fears, please,” he said. “I’m sorry―”

“They’re just a bunch of spiders,” grunted Hawke. “I can take care of them.”

“Maggots are nothing,” agreed Cassandra.

Lavellan gave them a grateful nod and focused on the spiderlings instead. Once they'd dispatched of the Nightmare’s minions, they followed the faint, golden trail of light that Faith had left behind for them to follow. The time constraint finally kicked into everyone. They raced to follow, either weary of the Fade or itching to serve the Nightmare’s ass to itself or both. Lavellan was both.

What if he wouldn’t feel normal again outside the Fade? What if he was stuck like this, forever feeling wrong, torn inside and reassembled outside?

“Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life!” the Nightmare roared.

They found Faith hovering in front of a shimmering, green barrier.

“I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself!” continued the Nightmare. “The demon army you fear? I command it. They are bound all through me!”

“Ah, so if we banish you, we banish the demons?” asked Faith. “Thank you, every fear come to life.”

The Nightmare yelled in frustration. More spiderlings crawled out from seemingly nowhere or out of the the crevices in the stone and fragments of walls. They focused on Faith.

“I will bring this barrier down,” she said, “but that means I cannot fend off the Nightmare’s minions.”

They kept the spiderlings off her before she successfully brought the barrier shattering down. She vanished again, left no trails this time, but the path seemed straightforward enough so they pushed on.

Until they faced a fork in the path.

Oh.

“Right or left?” he asked.

Hawke took out a coin. “Left, tails,” she said and flipped it. The coin landed heads. “Right then.”

Varric laughed in disbelief. “Wait, wait, are you two really deciding to navigate the Fade by chance?”

“When the choice is demons or demons, sometimes you just want to feel as if you have some say over your life careening out of control,” said Lavellan. They took the right path and descended the stairs to a barren field littered large puddles of water and pillars of stone. A mimicry of the sea and the shore stretched beside them.

“Oh wow, water,” drawled Hawke. “I’m terrified of wet socks, how’d it know?”

Lavellan felt the call of another soul standing hunched over a table scattered with papers. Lavellan approached, offered his hand, and they reached back.

They were one of the first Wardens, the first to answer the call to take up arms against the darkspawn. A scholar at heart, fraught with despair. The darkspawn were made of void and even death refused their presence. What could kill these creatures of decay?

Lavellan already knew the answer and he needn’t search far.

 _Show me the blood of the darkspawn,_ he willed the Fade and on the shores of the false sea, a glint caught his eye. He dug out the vial of darkspawn blood from the bone-white sands and returned to the scholar, placing the vial on the table.

“A way to defeat the Archdemon,” he said.

The soul surged towards the vial and the papers scattered in the wake of its force. The soul passed on with a blinding pulse of light. The vial now sat empty.

Lavellan was back to feeling some semblance of normal.

They arrived at the graveyard, their darkest fears as the epitaphs on the tombstones. Everyone stared in silence at theirs, unsure of how to respond.

His had changed. While before, it had read: _Failure,_ now it read…

Lavellan frowned at his tombstone.

_Lavellan  
Lost himself_

Was it meant to sting even more that it didn't use his first name? Not the Nightmare’s most impressive attempt.

Solas stood vigil over his, gripping his staff tight. _Dying alone_. Lavellan understood now that it may have meant something deeper. Alone, but also _alone_. The last of the People. Or alone in his actions. Perhaps all of them at once.

“Great bonding experience everyone,” muttered Bull. 

“Let’s get out of here,” said Lavellan and turned away. This was a dead-end path anyway.

They retraced their steps and took the left path at the fork, fought two hulking Pride demons, encountered a dormant eluvian, before Lavellan felt the pull of another fearful soul resting upon a tattered bed in the corner. This one seemed smaller than the rest.

He reached for it and no, no, this was a child, a little girl who would still her cries to ease her mother’s worries. A little girl who wanted so desperately to be freed of the monsters in her sleep. Fevered. Faded.

Ser Snort had kept the monsters away.

He searched frantically, found a dirtied stuffed animal on a ledge, and hurried to return it to the little girl. The soul took it, enveloped it with light.

“It’s alright now,” he said, let his voice carry and soothe. “Ser Snort is here. He’ll protect you from the monsters. Let him lead the way.” The soul trembled. He sat on the edge of the bed and let the child rest on him, humming his mother’s lullaby softly to her until the trembling stopped and she drifted away like mist cleared by the rising heat of the morning. More calm surrounded him. Lavellan didn’t want to tear his skin out any longer.

And on his lap remained a figurine of Ser Snort. A little, pink nug. He looked up and met the varied expressions on his companion’s faces.

“A child,” he explained and looked down, stroking the small item in his hand before he pocketed it.

They continued, the paths became straightforward once more, made livelier by the occasional waterfall of blood. They reunited with Faith who was hovering in front of another green barrier. Rather than spiderlings and fearlings, demons arrived to deter them.

Three Despair demons shrieked while wraiths and Rage demons trawled through. Oh balls.

Still, demons were fine. Demons he could handle.

 _Three_ Pride demons plus two Despair demons soon appeared to make their lives hell.

Oh fuck _off._

Lavellan was forced to use three flasks. Three left. One of each.

The fight harrowed them, wore them down. Lavellan lost himself in the rhythm of the fight and did his best to remain in it otherwise he would lose. He had to be a storm. One flash of lightning after another.

Once they'd vanquished the demons, Faith shattered the barrier.

She didn’t vanish this time. Instead, she hovered ahead as they trailed behind her through the winding paths of the Fade. They entered a large tunnel and there, tucked to the side, were the five souls Lavellan had helped. He felt their call and approached. They bowed their heads and he mirrored the gesture.

The souls twisted around one another, forming a hurricane of light, before they winked out with a rushing sigh and left behind something gleaming. Lavellan crouched and picked it up.

It was a small, teardrop-shaped necklace. The crystal glimmered like the sliver of a star in his hand, small and delicate, barely bigger than his thumbnail.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A gift,” replied Faith. She sounded pleased. “Highly potent spiritual energy resides within.”

Maybe he could have Dagna look at it. He pocketed it. His pocket was getting full at this rate.

“In any case Inquisitor," said Faith, "beyond this tunnel is the rift. You must get through and slam it shut with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons and exile this cursed creature to the furthest reaches of the Fade.”

His group moved through the tunnel and left it, found themselves beneath the emerald skies of the Fade once more.

And there, guarding the rift, was the colossal arachnid with the pocks of holes and eyes on its carapace, jaws snapping, teeth undulating.

The Nightmare.

“That is one disgusting motherfucker,” said Bull.

Nightmare had two bodies: the large arachnid with its eyes moving nauseatingly in their holes, and the variant of Fear demons Lavellan sometimes encountered around Fade rifts in the corporeal world. The Aspect of Nightmare. That was more humanoid, more manageable. Spikes grew from its spines, reminiscent of spider legs, and it held no face, only a plated structure that tapered into two pairs of short tentacles.

What skin he could see was emaciated, yellowing, pulled taut over ribs.

“Maker, that’s massive,” breathed Hawke.

“How in Shartan’s sagging nutsack are we supposed to get past _that_?” asked Varric.

“If you would,” said Faith as she rose towards the Nightmare's main body, “tell Leliana, ‘I am sorry. I failed you too.’”

Her glow brightened until she was almost blinding. Lavellan shielded his eyes with his arm and he squinted. Lightning spread from Faith, speared the Aspect of Nightmare with it, and the Nightmare collapsed in a convulsion of golden light.

Faith erupted in a glorious blast of radiance which showered them all with warmth. The Nightmare shrieked.

When the light dwindled, Faith and the large arachnid Nightmare was gone.

The Aspect of Nightmare recovered, screeched at them.

Almost gone.

“Alright, now’s the time to channel all that rage you all had earlier,” said Lavellan. “Home is right there.”

The rift flickered in its space behind the Aspect, a lazy drift of green.

“I am going to enjoy this,” said Hawke.

They rushed into the fight.

The close-quarter combatants couldn’t gain ground because the Aspect would disappear in a cloud of shadows and reappear elsewhere.

Spiderlings joined the chaos. Lavellan kicked them off him and kept his focus on the Aspect. He unslung his bow, positioned himself, and shot, but a barrier shimmered around the Aspect and deflected his arrows. He picked off the spiderlings sneaking up behind his companions instead.

“Hawke and Bull,” he called out. “On the Nightmare! Hit hard, wear the barrier down. Rest of you keep the stupid spiders off them.”

Then came the Terrors.

Lavellan strung together an impressive length of curses.

He sundered the Veil and paralysed the Nightmare and Terror demons.

“Hit them! Now, while I hold them there!”

He managed to hold the sunder open for five seconds before the fire in his veins began. Everyone focused their attacks onto the three demons. Lavellan’s hands shook after ten seconds.

“Alright, now move out of the way!”

The pain in his hand swelled. Lavellan closed the sunder.

The Aspect roared once the sunder closed, sent out a blast of energy that knocked Lavellan back, jarring his teeth.

He groaned and staggered back up.

A Terror demon sprang from beneath him and knocked him down again. It slashed.

He rolled away but the demon’s claws caught on his pants and trailed a long slice down his thigh. Son of a bitch.

Varric shot at the Terror. His bolt exploded on contact and the Terror screeched. Fell. Dead. As dead as you could make a demon anyway.

“You cannot stand against me,” said the Aspect and disappeared in shadow once again. It reappeared behind Varric. “I will crush you like the ants you are!”

“Varric!” screamed Hawke.

“Shit!” said Varric but no, no, he wouldn’t make it—

The Aspect slammed its two arms and many limbs down.

Cassandra lunged and came between them with her shield held over their heads. The Aspect struck the shield. The metal of it crumpled and Cassandra’s arm jerked back at an unnatural angle.

Bile lurched up Lavellan’s throat and his legs wouldn’t _move,_ come _on_!

She fell to her knees with a cry and Varric hurriedly aimed Bianca at the Aspect, shot point blank into its neck. It screeched and retreated. Cassandra’s arm dangled limply by her side, shield still in hand. She clenched her teeth and shoved it back into place with a pained cry that morphed into a determined roar and she was back on her feet.

Lavellan forced himself to stand, ignored the burn racing up his leg. He left his bow on the ground and drew his daggers.

He launched himself at the Aspect once it flickered back from the shadows and smashed the flask of lightning against himself. His only flask of lightning. His pain dulled and his senses alerted. He wove around the Aspect, inflicted and injured, made the most of the short window of time he had.

It shrieked and imparted a few hits on Lavellan but it couldn’t keep up with his speed. Black tar leaked from its numerous wounds.

His flask wore off. Lavellan staggered as he fell from its high.

The Aspect surged towards him.

Stroud yanked Lavellan back — rushed and bashed his shield against the Aspect while Cassandra attacked. A Rage demon reared up behind her but another of Varric’s specialised bolts hit its mark and the Rage demon fell.

Lavellan’s leg gave out. Solas caught him, let Lavellan lean on him.

“Don’t worry about me,” Lavellan grunted.

“A little difficult to do,” was his curt reply as he swung his staff with one arm. Lavellan fixed his position and tried to put less weight on Solas so he could cast properly. “I have been saving my mana for something large. Will you help me with it?”

“What do you need?”

“I need the enemies gathered in one place.”

Lavellan shook his hand out and took a deep breath.

“Move away from it!” he ordered again and opened another sunder above the Aspect. Scorching pain erupted and corroded to his elbows. His grip around Solas tightened and his breathing turned laboured. 

“Quickly!” urged Solas. "Herd the rest to the sunder!"

They set to work. Cassandra and Stroud rammed into enemies and swept them towards the sunder while Bull shouldered others. Hawke bashed spiderlings and launched them with a swing of her staff. They were immediately eviscerated by the sunder. It was almost comical. He would laugh if he wasn’t in damned pain.

“Move back!” said Solas. He held his staff overhead and orange wisps of light spun beneath him, reminiscent of flame. Solas slammed the staff down on the ground.

A large magic circle glowed beneath the cluster.

And from the skies rained stone and fire.

Lavellan grimaced as green veins of lightning spread from his hands, pain sharp and throbbing.

“Just a little longer, lethallin,” said Solas, slightly out of breath. He secured his hold around Lavellan. 

Solas’ firestorm battered the enemies while the sunder held them in place, helpless against the barrage. Each hit thundered as the rocks splintered and the fire raged and the black trails of smoke laced with emerald green lightning from the sunder.

“Holy shit,” crowed Bull with a disbelieving cackle.

After the last of the meteors fell, Hawke swiftly summoned spikes of ice. They jutted from the ground, jagged and mean, impaled the Aspect’s unmoving body and displayed it as if it were a head on a pike. Black blood seeped into the crystalline ice.

They took a moment to regain their breaths. Solas gently lowered Lavellan into a sitting position and attempted to heal him, but his magic spluttered, mana exhausted. He tore a strip off his robes and wrapped it around Lavellan's leg instead. Lavellan thanked Solas and took stock of his companions who were all in varying states of bloodied or bruised. Cassandra held her shield arm awkwardly.

“It is done,” panted Stroud. “The demon is vanquished.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Hawke.

But this wasn’t over. They didn’t have much time. Solas helped him up and he reached for the rift, opened it fully.

“Go!” Lavellan snapped.

They didn’t need to be told twice. Solas lingered to help Lavellan walk but Lavellan waved him off and urged him to go ahead as he waited, making sure everyone was ahead of him. He didn’t want anybody lagging behind.

He didn’t want to choose a life.

Wisps of shadows swirled above them. Stroud and Hawke paused, hesitated as it thickened.

Lavellan gritted his teeth against the pain of his legs and he sprinted.

The Nightmare’s large arachnid body materialised. Lavellan shoved Hawke and Stroud and apologised as they crashed harshly ahead of him.

“Get up, get up!” he ordered. “Run, you shits!”

“Inquisitor―” started Hawke.

“ _Go!_ ” Desperation shrilled his voice.

The Nightmare demon bore down on Lavellan and blocked the path, but this time, no Hawke or Stroud. He tilted his chin up at the demon in defiance. His heart battered his ribs.

_Fuck, fuck, now what?_

“You think you are safe?” boomed the Nightmare’s voice. “Fool!”

He couldn’t die yet, not here!

“Inquisitor!”

The universe really, _really_ despised him.

Solas rushed back for him and slid beneath the small gap beneath the Nightmare’s legs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lavellan yelled.

“What am I doing? What are _you_ doing?” He glowered at Lavellan. “Now is not the time for martyrdom!”

“Inquisitor! Solas!” cried Cassandra from the rift, voice and expression distraught. Lavellan met her panicked look and mustered a reassuring smile for her.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and turned to Solas. “Push her in,” he murmured, chest tightening.

Solas pressed his lips into a grim line and shot a harmless force at her. Cassandra protested but it was silenced as Solas' magic pushed her into the rift.

Lavellan closed it.

“No!” shrieked the Nightmare. “What have you done? You have doomed us all!”

Lavellan grabbed Solas. Turned.

Ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ me: hey, action scenes aren't really your strong suit so maybe you shouldn't--  
> Me in a black hood: Do it  
> Me: But--  
> Me in a black hood: Juggle multiple characters while doing it, get fucked
> 
> Good job Lavellan, you saved Hawke and Stroud! Except, now you and Solas are stranded. 
> 
> Side note, this fic is turning out to be a bigger project than I'd initially thought. I thought this fic would end in the 200k range but apparently, Plot and Lore Expansion happened.


	27. In echoes of the ancient chorus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I get repetitive with all the thank yous in reply to comments but I really have no other words. I promise if I could convey the giant grin and absolute joy every comment gives me via typing, I would.
> 
> Now then, let's see what the two idiots are up to.

_crescendo within your solace―_

* * *

The impact from running sent a gutting burn through his thighs, coupling with the pain in his left forearm. Adrenaline was the only thing stopping him from collapsing.

“The Nightmare demon is being banished to the farthest Fade,” said Solas as they ran. “Its realm is fixed and thus, cannot continue. It will collapse around us and revert to its natural state without the demon’s influence.”

The large of crops of stone hovering in the sky rumbled, shook, fell. They hurtled into walls, devastated the earth, sent water splashing. One smashed into the Nightmare demon. It crashed with a screech, its many legs flailing, many eyes frantic.

They had to get out of here.

Lavellan looked down at his hands flaring with green.

This was going to hurt.

“Solas, what are the chances of a rift leading back to Adamant?” he asked.

“This realm is overlaid over the fortress so the space may roughly match. Why―” He paused, narrowed his eyes at Lavellan. “Please tell me you’re not planning to open a rift.”

“I’m not planning to open a rift.” Lavellan clenched his hand. “I’m _making_ one.”

They passed through the tunnel from earlier. It collapsed behind them just as they exited it, but the large twin raven statues toppled ahead of them and blocked the path.

Trapped.

“Well, now we _really_ don’t have a choice,” muttered Lavellan. “Alright, hold on.”

He stopped running and reached for the Veil, felt its vibration, its hum beneath his hand. Solas threw a static barrier up around them and repelled small rocks falling from the sky.

Lavellan breathed, focused. It had to be larger than a sunder. A clean rip in the Veil, not a punch. He'd done it before when he'd sent Corypheus to the Fade, but he'd done that messily so it would rip Corypheus apart. He had to be careful this time. Clean. He had to part the curtain, find the seam and tear.

He could do it. Had to. Otherwise they would die with this realm,

The Anchor latched itself onto the Veil. Lavellan scrunched his brows in concentration and pinched the Veil from either side. Stretched.

Ripped.

Opened.

A nebulous cloud of green shimmered around them and a vigorous ripple of agony ravaged his arm. Lavellan gnashed his teeth and swallowed his cry. He gripped his elbow to steady the tremor of his hand and forced the small tear to open further. The green glow flared over his forearms.

A small earthquake shook them.

Lavellan staggered but Solas caught him and lowered themselves into a kneeling position. He laid his hand over Lavellan’s. Coolness seeped into Lavellan’s skin from Solas’ magic and the pain eased somewhat.

“Focus,” said Solas. “Be swift. Tear it in one.”

The world fell around them.

Lavellan took a deep breath and fixed his grip on the Veil, on the forming rift, and forced it open. He screamed. His arm burned, felt as if a hot iron rod had lodged itself in the space between the two bones of his forearm. Veins of lightning spread over his skin.

_Oh gods, oh gods, his arm was going to disintegrate—_

A rift yawned in front of them, displayed a tantalising array of unfeasible colours. Lavellan panted, too harrowed to speak, throat raw.

Solas slipped his arms under Lavellan’s and pulled him up, hobbled towards the rift.

A large chunk of rock loomed and hurtled towards them. Lavellan paled, and with a great heave, threw themselves into the rift in time to avoid being crushed.

Light flooded his vision.

Lavellan flinched and Solas’ hold on him loosened and they plunged, hands seeking one another as the darkness eclipsed the light. They couldn’t hold on to each other. The loss of warmth jarred him and he cast his hands out, yelled Solas’ name but no sound escaped.

Fingers brushed against his.

Ripped away.

Powerful gales ripped into him and separated him from Solas. In the darkness, he tumbled. Alone, lost, bereft.

Landed―

* * *

Awoke to the world in flames.

His lungs filled with decay and the smell of burnt bodies, the dark sky thick with smog and embers. Lavellan coughed and sat up. Taste of metal in his mouth. His left forearm was made of light and agony. Black dust beneath him, stained his fingers like charcoal, stuck to it because of the browned blood.

Here was where the world had trembled, brought to its knees by the Dread Wolf, the board in a game of chess where powerful nations had arrayed and rent the board asunder. This was once a city. Now a city of ash and death, ruled by the march of armies and the blood of the fallen. There were no victors here.

This world was on its last throes of life.

He pushed himself up, covered in soot and aches and dried, crusting blood. On his last throes of life too. His left arm flickered ― light, not flesh. He tilted his head skyward and mourned that he wouldn’t be able to see blue skies in his final moments. Faded and indiscernible memories flitted through his mind. He mourned them too.

Lavellan turned.

Solas stood across him, held himself in a fatigued manner, the wolf pelt across his chest matted with blood.

They shared a long, grieving look.

“I am tired,” he said. Who said? Both. Neither.

In the distance: screaming, weeping, the ringing of metal, the rallying cries of dying soldiers. Did it matter which side they were on? Not really. Death, death, death. The breeze was humid.

He called on his wrath, his fury, but there was nothing left in him. No meaning.

“I don’t want to fight,” Lavellan said.

Solas reflected Lavellan’s drained expression. “Nor I."

He smiled ruefully. “So let’s not.”

“You of all people know that cannot be.”

Lavellan chanced a step forward, did so slowly and with care as one would when faced with a frightened animal. 

“Why not?” he asked. “This isn’t an either or. It shouldn’t be. Please, just… Let me in.”

Solas smiled, brittle, aching. “You cannot fix this.”

“I’m not trying to, that’s not my responsibility. But let me help.” Lavellan took a step, and another, and another, until he and Solas faced each other with the distance scant between them. “You don’t have to be lonely; you don’t have to walk alone. There’s another path, there must be.”

“There isn’t.”

Lavellan grabbed the front of the wolf pelt, felt cold blood beneath his hands. The Anchor lit the space between them.

“Then _make_ one,” he snarled.

“It cannot be as easy as that. We may wish and hope, but the reality is rarely as favourable,” murmured Solas.

“I didn’t say it would be. Did you even think about it? Did you even bother? Did you even fight to contemplate it?”

“I tire of fighting.”

Lavellan’s expression fell, shoulders heavy as the realisation of it hit. As his weariness hit.

“So do I.” A pathetic and choked sob escaped him as he hung his head, let it rest on Solas’ shoulders. “So do I.”

Solas hesitated, but slowly, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around Lavellan. Loose at first. As if giving him room to escape. Lavellan wrapped his arms around Solas in return and Solas held him tighter then. They clung to one another on that shattered chess board, that ruined battlefield. Witnessed only by the rubble and the cinders and the terrible, cloying air.

“You do not have to keep fighting,” murmured Solas. “Let me carry the burden on your behalf.”

Lavellan raised his head and frowned at him. “You cannot fight for both worlds, Solas. And you do not have to carry everything yourself.”

“Better me than you.”

Searing pain flared from Lavellan's back.

A choked, wet gurgle escaped him and his body seized at the intrusion.

“Solas―” he gasped. His fingers gripped the wolf pelt and squeezed cold blood out, clammy through his fingers, trickled down his inner arm like a lover’s caress.

“I’m sorry,” Solas whispered, eyes ever so remorseful as he cradled the back of Lavellan's head.

He wrenched the blade.

A strangled sound tore through Lavellan’s throat, lungs filling with blood. Solas’ expression twisted in grief. They shared a broken, quiet look.

Lavellan wanted to feel rage, anger, anything. Anything but crushing grief. Anything but gutting betrayal. Lavellan’s breaths rattled and his legs buckled beneath him, clutched at the back of Solas’ armour just to pull himself up. Solas held him steady. The hand at the back of Lavellan’s head moved to cup his cheek instead.

“Vhenan,” Lavellan choked out, looked into his eyes imploringly, hand desperate as it gripped the one Solas laid upon his cheek. Solas’ expression twisted even further. “Don’t—"

The rest of his words died on his tongue as Solas pressed their lips together and Lavellan’s world came crashing even faster. Tasted salt and ash and metal. Lavellan scrunched his eyes shut and his world reduced to three things: the sorrow-tainted kiss, the dull fire in his back, and wherever he and Solas were touching. It couldn’t be tender. It wasn't allowed to be.

Blood slipped through teeth and mixed with tears with every slide and brush of their lips. Someone sobbed into the kiss. It didn’t matter who.

Somebody pulled back. Again, it didn’t matter who. Nothing mattered anymore.

Lavellan gasped in the scarce breaths they shared, as if he could steal the air in Solas’ lungs and fight the death he'd wrought Lavellan. Meagre attempts to hold onto life.

One last time, Solas whispered, “Ir abelas, vhenan,” over bloodstained, tear-soaked lips.

Solas pulled the blade out, tore another rattling breath out of Lavellan.

And he let Lavellan go.

Without Solas to hold him up, he staggered back, taking in pathetic, gasping breaths as if that would help. Coldness gaped in the space between them.

He fell.

The last thing Lavellan saw was the smoky, ruined sky before the waters swallowed him. His blood diffused, crimson ribbons trailing up and blending into the darkness of the water, his arm a soft flicker of light reaching nothing.

And all Lavellan did was float.

Lost and alone. The light of the Anchor faded and the dark draped itself around him.

_His greatest declaration of love would see you dead._

Lavellan closed his eyes.

* * *

Sunlight through his eyelids.

Sunlight on his face. Warm.

Birdsong trilled and the breeze chimed soft, caressed his cheek and eased his eyes open. Blue skies stretched above. Lavellan blinked, turned his head, the grass soft beneath him and tickling his ears. Found himself in a garden. A garden?

Lavellan pushed himself up. No pain from a stab wound, no struggling breaths, his left arm was back to normal.

No tears and blood on his lips.

Lavellan buried his head in his hands and sucked in a shaky breath. What was that? A dream? No, that wasn’t… That wasn’t how it had happened. That wasn’t how they'd died. Their death had been hostile, violent, hopeless, and without room left for actions of love. None besides delivering the other’s end.

He rose his head and forced himself to stand.

This garden… Lavellan knew this garden.

He recognised the ancient elven achitecture of the covered walkway framing the garden, the golden tiles of the garden path, the vibrant and picturesque asters and the leaves chiming with every soft breeze. Almost tasted the magic in the air. It himmered over his skin, clung to the fabric of his clothes, swept into his lungs like smoke ― the ghost of a forgotten time.

His gaze fell on the stone gazebo.

“Oh,” he breathed.

This was Skyhold.

This was Elvhenan.

Lavellan took a tentative step forward, then another. The world remained solid. He wandered to the walkway, traced his hand over the stone, before he entered the Great Hall.

The atmospheric shift punched him in the gut.

Vaulted ceilings gleamed with embedded crystals glowing in the crushing din, the elevated path in the middle made of dark, polished stones veined with gold. Any source of lighting in the wide, empty space was dim. As green as Veilfire in their brackets. The firelight glinted off the mosaic inlaid upon the walls.

Eerie.

The press of discomfort sat heavy on his shoulders and his footsteps echoed in the space and it felt so empty, wide, and open and unwelcoming and distant. Those weren't the words he would have associated with the Great Hall. It was where the braziers were always lit, where people gathered to take shelter from the cold or speak with one another, where people milled about and where Lavellan ate dinner with friends or soldiers or dignitaries.

It was warm. It was the heart of Skyhold. Even in the dead of the night when everyone had gone to bed and Lavellan walked the Hall, he'd feel the warmth. Remnants, whispers of it. Enough to calm him down.

Here, it was… cold. Actively discouraged anybody who roamed it.

Lavellan’s gaze fell at the end of the Hall where the throne usually resided.

There was no throne.

He stared at the empty space for a long time. Nothing replaced it. No altars or shrines or statues or even decoration. It was as if the empty space itself _was_ the throne, was the declaration, and Lavellan wasn’t sure what Solas was declaring by leaving it bare. But he could infer.

He examined his surroundings once more.

 _Go away,_ it seemed to say. _There is no god here._

His mouth twisted and pulled in his discomfort. Well, mission accomplished. He wanted to fuck off from here. But how could he leave? Where even was he?

His stomach churned. What if… No, he couldn’t be in the past, could he? If he'd been brought back from the dead into the past, why couldn’t it happen again? And further back? What if the forces which had brought him back in the first place decided he was ineffective in that time and sent him thousands of years back instead?

Solas. He had to find Solas.

Lavellan searched high and low, ignored the sinister press of the quiet and emptiness. After he scoured the upper and lower levels of the Great Hall, he sighed and resigned himself to heading to the Keep and ascending its many flights of stairs.

Lavellan reoriented himself on the way. They'd been in the Fade. They'd fought Nightmare’s Aspect, closed the rift to Adamant after ensuring everybody got through, he and Solas escaped the Nightmare’s collapsing realm by opening a rift, and then…

He traced his fingers over the crystal filigrees twining with the stone wall.

And then the end of the world as Solas stabbed him in the back.

Now here.

Another set of footsteps echoed besides his. A hopeful breath left him. Solas? He hurried down the wide corridor, followed it left, turned the corner.

Froze.

His legs numbed, his throat seized, and Lavellan met the surprised gaze of Fen’Harel.

Fen’Harel who was garbed in armour, mantle made of a wolf’s pelt. Fen’Harel whose gaze narrowed in suspicion at Lavellan who couldn’t move a single damned muscle.

“One of Dirthamen’s?” Fen’Harel asked in Elvish, Lavellan startled at his voice, then cursed himself at the reaction. 

One of Dirthamen’s? What did he―?

The vallaslin.

 _Slave markings_.

Lavellan tried to move or flee, but his body wouldn’t listen. Any orders he sent to his limbs were blocked and all he could do was quiver in place. He opened his mouth but no sound escaped.

All he managed was a weak, “Fen’Harel.”

Fen’Harel’s eyes widened. “You are hurt,” he said.

Lavellan looked down at himself. He was battered, bleeding from the gash in his thigh, scraped and bruised from fighting the Aspect.

“Oh,” he mumbled. His leg flared in pain and buckled and Lavellan pitched forward.

Fen’Harel Fade-stepped and caught him, lowered them both gently onto the floor while Lavellan clutched onto him for dear life, couldn’t decipher the furore of emotions battling within him. Last time he'd clung onto Solas like this, he got stabbed in the back. How many times could a man get stabbed before he considered the stabber a lost cause? Or had that even been Solas? Was his mind playing tricks? Was the Fade playing tricks? Could these visions be the work of a demon?

“Who did this to you?” Fen’Harel demanded, hovered his glowing hands over the wound, but it did not close. “What manner of injury is this?” he muttered to himself.

Lavellan observed him. _Was_ this Fen’Harel his Solas? He consulted the Well but it was silent — hushed roar of waves upon a shore.

Fuck, he was so lost.

“Do you know me?” he finally managed to ask after wrestling his vocal cords into action. The ancient language settled on his tongue. Fen’Harel looked up and Lavellan choked up at the familiar hue of his eyes.

“No, my apologies,” he said, but he frowned and scrutinised Lavellan. “But you do seem familiar. I―” The frown deepened. “I cannot feel anything from you.”

Feel?

Something frantic descended upon Fen’Harel’s expression.

“Who is your master?” he asked. Shit, he thought Lavellan was a slave. At Lavellan’s silence, he eased and continued in a softer tone. “Do not be afraid, I am here to help. Who did this to you?”

His mind whirled, casting for answers.

“I… I can’t say,” he said instead.

“You can say anything. You are safe here. Tell me, who hurt you?”

Lavellan looked into those eyes full of fervour and a desire to right oppression, break the chains of bondage. Not exhausted. Not burdened with grief and regret brought on by mistakes of a race-ending magnitude. Among Lavellan’s warring emotions, resent and sorrow won.

The pressure building in his throat escaped him in a choked wheeze. Hot tears brimmed and fell, felt as if they'd carved a channel into his cheeks, and his body shuddered under the force of his weeping.

“You did,” Lavellan whispered shakily.

“I―”

Lavellan glared him into silence, a mighty feat considering he was a hiccupping mess. The resentment and bitterness reared their unsightly heads.

“No,” he hissed. “ _I’m_ talking. You sit there and listen.”

Fen’Harel blinked at him in bewilderment.

“You don’t see us, do you? We’re all just―” His shuddering breaths made it difficult to push words out but fuck it if he wouldn’t try. Lavellan gripped the wolf pelt. “We’re just _distractions_ to you, things that can't become real because we’ll interfere with your greater plans.”

“You _are_ real,” he said, frowning, looking unsure if Lavellan needed a cloth to wipe his tears or a good conk to the head.

Lavellan’s laugh was almost manic. “No. Not just me. It can never just be me. It shouldn’t ever just be me, Solas.”

Fen’Harel stilled at his name.

“Please, try,” he begged, hung his head, and succumbed to another wave of sobs. “I can’t do this on my own. I don’t want to do it on my own. Not again.”

And it was his fault that he'd ended up so alone. Lavellan had pushed everyone’s attempts to forge a deeper connection away while he was Inquisitor, and then he'd been too embroiled in anger while hunting Solas down. Any meaningful connections he'd made were all near the end of his life when exhaustion had dulled the spokes of his rage and removed whatever was making him decline his friends attempts to spend time with him.

“You don’t have to,” Lavellan continued. “You don’t have to be so alone. We’re here. We’re real. Let us be real.”

Fen’Harel listened, grew more troubled by the second. He reached out and cradled Lavellan’s face. The warmth of his hands had Lavellan sobbing anew. He gave in to his weakness and closed his eyes, leaned into the touch. Fen’Harel swiped his thumb beneath Lavellan’s eye and wiped the tears away.

“Why do you weep?” he asked.

Lavellan held the hands cradling his face.

“We aren’t shadows,” he said. “We're trying. Please, give us a chance.”

Fen’Harel stayed quiet. Lavellan opened his eyes and met the vulnerability in Fen’Harel’s gaze.

“You’re… familiar,” Fen’Harel said. “I know you.” His gaze traced the lines of Lavellan’s face, fingers trailing and catching on the edge of Lavellan’s jaw as if he were mapping it out.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I am. I am always listening to you,” he said with an earnestness that surprised them both. “Who are you to me?”

“I can’t answer that for you. Who _am_ I to you?”

Fen’Harel leaned his forehead against Lavellan’s. “You make my heart hurt so.” He took one of Lavellan’s hands and guided it to his chest, over his heart. “I _know_ you.”

“You do.” Lavellan felt the thunder of both their heartbeats. “Please think about what I said.”

It was like watching the time-lapse of a blooming rose. His confusion melted, replaced by startled clarity as his lips parted and recognition sparked in his eyes. And the next, like watching the rose wilt. The youth and fire in his visage vanished and the resignation pulled his face into something exhausted, someone older, not any wiser.

“Why must you make things so much harder?” Fen’Harel asked, closed his eyes and furrowed his brows in his mild distress. “I must do this.”

“No, it’s not the only way. There must be other ways.”

“I’m sorry.” Fen’Harel smiled sadly as he opened his eyes. “No visions, no matter how clever, will sway me.”

Lavellan wanted to punch him. He thought this was all a vision (and some part of him was relieved that they were not, in fact, in Elvhenan).

He grabbed the front of Solas’ cloak and shook him, snarled, his face blurry past the tears.

“Vision or no, open your ears you damn bastard! This isn't like you. This isn't you.”

“You do not know that,” he whispered.

“I do. Grief and guilt has twisted you. Spare a few moments to think of alternatives, please. Do not lose yourself to the monster that others think you are. You’re not a monster. I am sorry the Dalish have made one out of you, I am sorry that history has not been kind to you, I am sorry that things have gone so wrong with you trying to do the right thing. But please. Please, keep trying. Not like this. Not the path of death.”

His eyes widened. “I―”

Lavellan’s left hand flared. The green flashes intensified, lit the corridor and washed away everything. Lavellan squinted. And again, the light gave way to darkness.

Water wrapped around him, pushed, Lavellan reached in the darkness. Upwards―

* * *

He broke through the surface of the water gasping, pulled himself up onto shore and rolled over to lay on his back and catch his breath.

The Fade’s psychedelic skies and strident sun mocked him. They weren’t out.

Needles prickled at him once more. Lavellan breathed in a quivering gasp and pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes, whimpered. It didn’t work. And now he had those wretched visions to remember and he was back to feeling pressed yet pulled in every direction.

Wait. Where was Solas?

Lavellan sat up and absorbed his surroundings, ignored his disorientation. Water everywhere, deep pools with only narrow paths to navigate them, reminiscent of the Fallow Mire minus the walking corpses, with an addition of waterfalls rushing skywards. So they were water…rises?

The Black City hovered in the distance.

“Solas?” he called out.

Silence. Lavellan pushed himself up. His leg protested at the sudden action and he stumbled. He unwrapped the strip of cloth to check on the wound and hissed at it. It throbbed, red and raised. The water had washed the blood away but it had reopened at some point so he rewrapped it. He pushed himself up and wandered the strange realm, conducted his search in silence because he had no wish to draw the attention of something unwanted.

Where the hell was Solas? And where in the Fade were they? It couldn’t be the Nightmare’s realm since that had collapsed, so then, which spirit or demon held dominion over this section of the Fade?

Could Solas be in the water? That was where Lavellan had crawled out of, after all, and he was sure he would have seen Solas on the paths.

A hand flailed in the waters beside him.

Lavellan yelped.

Solas surfaced, gasping. Lavellan got over his initial shock and grabbed his hand, pulled him out and onto dry ground. Solas panted, looked at Lavellan as if he saw a ghost.

“Mahanon?” he asked, voice small as if he were a frightened child, the grip of his hands around Lavellan’s arms tightening to the point of hurting, but Lavellan made no mention of it.

“I’m here,” said Lavellan.

Solas looked around him, breathing ragged. He was pallid and almost sickly in the green light of the Fade, and the twinge of vicious satisfaction at his state had Lavellan feeling more shit than he already was. Still, he couldn’t help but indulge in it for a few seconds. _It’s about time you were unmoored. It’s about time you were the one clinging onto me for dear life, shattered and threadbare. It’s about time, it’s about time._

It didn’t make him feel better.

Solas closed his eyes. Lavellan waited while he focused his breathing, the unsteady and shaky breaths evening out into a steadier rhythm. The distressed lines on Solas' face vanished. His shoulders relaxed.

Did Solas share Lavellan’s visions? Or were they separate?

Solas opened his eyes once more, calmer.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan asked as Solas uncurled his fingers and eased the deathly grip he had on Lavellan’s arm, left his muscles sore from the dig of Solas' fingers.

Solas sighed, rubbed his eyes. “No. I lost my staff.”

“Is that the sole reason why you’re not alright?”

He paused, frowned and glanced up at Lavellan. “No… Did you see visions?”

Lavellan played dumb. “Visions?” If they had indeed shared the visions, then he was going to have a hard time explaining why he'd babbled away about Solas’ plans. “What sort of visions?”

“I…” He shook his head. “No, never mind. In any case, the rift did not lead to Adamant. Now comes the problem of determining where we are and whether this part of the Fade belongs to a hostile spirit.”

“I’ve wandered for a while and I haven’t seen many spirits, if at all. It’s barren.”

Solas frowned and studied the realm. “Were you in the water, Inquisitor?”

Oh, back to Inquisitor it seemed.

“I was."

“Are you sure you saw no visions?”

Lavellan supposed he could be somewhat truthful. “I didn’t say I didn’t. One was a memory though it wasn’t as I remember. Another was… Well, it featured people from my past but the setting was somewhere I’d never been to before.”

“Nothing which tempted you?”

“No.”

“Were you shown your regrets?”

He hesitated at that, but he settled for shaking his head.

Something tightened in Solas’ expression. “Who did you meet?”

Lavellan looked down. “An old friend,” he murmured.

He stayed quiet and didn’t probe further, likely sensing the sorrow in Lavellan’s tone. Instead, his attention fell on Lavellan’s bandaged thigh and he was back to frowning.

“May I?” he asked and gestured at the wound.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to exhaust you. And you don’t have your staff.”

“I will not require it for this, and I have sufficiently regained my stores of mana.”

At Lavellan’s assenting nod, he unwrapped the bandage and set to work. Solas' magic settled deep into his skin and Lavellan watched the wound close. The sight may have discomfited him were it any other time but as it was, he was far too drained.

“Should I try opening another rift?” he asked.

“No, not yet. Not until we determine the relative safety of this part of the Fade as compared to the rest.” He finished and offered Lavellan his hand. Lavellan took it and tested his leg, murmured his gratitude.

They navigated the paths, stuck in an uneasy silence with Lavellan feigning ignorance at the small looks Solas kept shooting him. Bastard had stabbed him _twice_. Did he do the last one purpose? And he had the gall to kiss Lavellan afterwards. The absolute. Fucking. _Asshole_.

“These visions,” Lavellan started. “Did you know you were in one? Were you in control of your actions?”

“Were you?” he returned.

“I didn’t know for one of them.”

Solas’ hands twitched by his sides. He looked bare without his staff to lean on or walk with, and after an awkward moment of deliberation, he settled for holding his hands behind his back and Lavellan could almost pretend they were conversing in a dream, walking through shifting paths of colour. Alas, the needles still in Lavellan’s bloodstream reminded him otherwise.

“I was not aware for either,” said Solas, tone terse and clipped. “Not until the end.”

Was Lavellan supposed to feel better that subconsciously, Solas thought the best course of action was to stab Lavellan as they embraced, literally stab him in the back, and then kiss him afterwards while he was bleeding out in his arms?

To be fair, he shouldn’t have expected much from the man who had broken up with him in a cold, wet pond-cave in the dead of the night.

“What did you see?” Lavellan asked because the discomfort had made him irritable and petty and he wanted to _rip out his own skin and shave his teeth in thin layers and dig his nails into his throat—_

“I would rather not discuss it.”

“Okay,” he said but his voice came out thinly. Solas looked at him in question but he was quick to shift to worry and Lavellan became aware of the minute aches in the muscles of his face and he realised his expression had turned strained at some point. The Well of Sorrows hissed. Whether that was directed at him, he didn’t know. He needed to… something. Burst or collapse inwards. Both, simultaneously.

“Are you alright?” Solas asked and stopped walking, reached out for Lavellan, but seemed to think better of it because his hands hesitated. He placed it on Lavellan’s arm instead. “Lethallin?”

His skin was too pulled, his ribs were too tight. The more he paid attention to the sensation, the worse it became and the more he couldn’t ignore it which repeated the cycle until the discomfort grew exponentially and invaded every corner of his lucidity.

Lavellan gripped Solas’ shoulders to anchor himself. Couldn’t speak. The needles were bursting now, crystallising on the walls of his tissues.

Solas winced as Lavellan’s fingers dug into flesh, his skin saved from breaking because of his robes. “What has been ailing you? Did you feel the same when you and the Divine traversed the Fade?”

“Yes,” he nigh sobbed. “I just feel wr _ong_.” The Anchor flared from his distress and Solas cast it a scrutinising look. He eased that hand off his shoulders and covered it with his, the green light slipping through the spaces of their fingers.

 _It’s not the Anchor_ , he wanted to wail. It wasn’t that, he had it before and he'd been fine but now he was _not_ and he couldn’t figure out why and it was driving him up against a wall. “I want to tear my skin apart and grind my teeth until they break and—” His words devolved into a frenzied stream of incoherent Elvish cursing.

“ _Mahanon_ ,” Solas called firmly.

“I’m sorry,” he babbled, “I keep losing my shit in front of you and I’m being pathetic, I’m sorry—”

Solas opened his mouth, but something caught his attention over Lavellan’s shoulder. Soft, blue light flickered in Solas’ eyes. No, not in his eyes. Reflected off them.

Lavellan turned his head just as gentle curls of smoke coiled loosely around him, glowing a calm blue.

 _“At ease,”_ a voice whispered in his head. It wasn’t the Well of Sorrows. This voice swelled and lapped like water too, but it was a steady trickle over smooth stones rather than an unpredictable flooding. Unknown as it was, it still alleviated the wrongness. _“Stop pushing. You’ll hurt yourself.”_

The blue smoke pulled away, took the discomfort with it. Lavellan’s head cleared and he could finally breathe. The needles in his veins were still present but at least they were dismissible. The Anchor stopped flaring. Solas took his hands away and Lavellan eased the grip on his shoulders with a grimace and a meek apology. Pressing ahead and fighting despite his state of discomfort had sapped more of his strength than he'd realised. Blue lights still glowed behind him.

Lavellan turned to investigate the source and found a spirit hovering above the waters, glowing a deep, oceanic blue, radiant inwards and not outwards like Faith. The spirit was bright, but the light was contained within its form.

“Hello,” said the spirit. Lavellan sensed it and what it represented.

“A spirit of Memory,” said Solas in faint surprise.

It drifted closer and stopped by the edge of the shore, gaze lingering on Lavellan, before nodding at Solas.

“Yes,” it said, its voice like a collection of nostalgic sighs and wistful farewells. Swayed and shimmered, not quite how you remembered.

“Memory?” asked Lavellan.

“They are rare and are generally content in the Fade, unconcerned with our world,” Solas explained.

Lavellan tipped his head at Memory. “Were you the one who eased my discomfort?”

It nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry, are we trespassing?”

“No,” it said, “but you mustn’t linger here. This is not where you are needed.” It looked into the water. “Some want to dismiss you dead, but you promised you will return, so she will wait. She believes. They believe. You will come back. The Fade Walker is with you, so they believe even more that you will both return.”

“Can you see them?” asked Lavellan.

“Their memories.”

“So it has already happened,” said Solas.

“Then we have to hurry back,” Lavellan said. A headache mounted in his head once more and he massaged his temples. “But how?”

“I can direct you back,” said Memory. “Open a rift once more and I will channel you to the fortress. However, I will require something in return.”

Solas and Lavellan shared a look.

“Uh, excuse us a moment,” said Lavellan and dragged Solas off to the side for a discussion. “Can spirits of Memory do that? Can spirits do that at all?”

“If the spirit has significant power, yes, I believe so.” His gaze swept across the landscape. “In any case, this realm is large, and most spirits of Memory hold only small areas of the Fade. I believe this spirit to be ancient and powerful. They are not of malignant intentions either. Spirits of Memory rarely are, if at all. They are far more interested in preserving memories.”

Lavellan chewed on his lip. Well, their options were limited and he supposed he should be grateful that they were with a spirit of Memory and not a Desire or Pride demon.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll hear it out.”

They returned to Memory who hovered there in patience.

“We would welcome your help,” said Lavellan. “What do you need from us?”

Memory drifted back and left gentle ripples on the water’s surface in its wake. “The Nightmare has stolen memories from me, feasted upon the terror within them, and discarded them carelessly once it had finished with them. They are lost in its realm. Not its realm any longer. You have erased its touch upon that part of the Fade and so spirits will clamour to claim it for themselves. I fear the memories will be destroyed in the aftermath.”

“You want us to retrieve it?” Lavellan asked.

“Yes. Four memories it has taken. Recover what you can to the best of your abilities.” Memory looked east. “Its old realm is nearby. Our realms were not so close, initially, but it had grown fat upon the terror and expanded its domain.”

“We’ll get moving then,” said Lavellan.

“Not you,” said Memory. “You will stay.”

He blinked at it. “Pardon?”

“You will remain. Only he will go.”

Lavellan would appreciate it if Solas at least looked like he was putting up a fight. All he did was tilt his head in consideration.

“Is there a reason why?” Solas asked.

“Faith guided through Nightmare’s domain, but without a guide, I fear he will become lost even with you. He is capricious, easily distracted. The Fade changes far too easily with him.”

“Hey! I’m right here.”

“And I cannot leave my domain to guide. It will fall prey to those of the same opportunistic nature as the Nightmare. He must remain.”

Lavellan scowled. “I’m not leaving Solas alone. Not when you’ve told me all sorts of spirits will be vying for Nightmare’s old domain. I promise I won’t get distracted.”

“No,” said both. Lavellan scowled at Solas but Solas wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“And Solas isn’t in danger of getting lost?” Lavellan asked.

“No. If the Fade were an ocean then he walks the waters while you are within its depths. You are swimming well, but you are surrounded. It will be overwhelming.”

“I was doing just fine in the Nightmare’s realm.”

Memory fixed him an intense stare. “Were you?” it challenged. He became acutely aware of the needles in his veins once more, the press of the atmosphere and the push of his being, and he clenched his hands. “If you stay, I can also ensure the discomfort you feel does not exacerbate. Will that do?”

His body betrayed him by slumping in relief. Could a spirit look smug? Because Memory certainly looked smug.

“It will be alright, Inquisitor,” assured Solas. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I can take care of myself. The Fade is familiar to me. I have walked its paths numerous times.”

Oh he was sure, but still. “It’s not your prowess I’m doubting,” he muttered. “I just worry.”

“I know. I’ll be back before you know it.” He glanced at Memory who engaged him in a silent conversation. Memory tilted its head.

“He will be alright. My realm is safe so long as I remain,” said Memory. It swept its arm and a blue trail wisped into existence ahead of Solas. “I can guide you to my domain’s boundary, but from there, you are on your own.”

Solas nodded, fixed Lavellan an almost chiding look. “Please, stay out of trouble."

“Likewise.”

His lips twitched but Lavellan couldn’t be sure because he turned and followed Memory’s trail. Lavellan watched his back as he walked the path alone ― the Roamer of the Beyond, He Who Hunts Alone, solitary in his duty.

Lavellan hated it.

Soon, Solas was a speck in the distance even though only a few minutes had passed.

That left him with Memory.

He looked at it, a little awkward. Should he make conversation?

“The visions I saw,” he started. “When we… somehow fell in the water… What were they?”

Memory clasped its hands in front of it. “A cross-sharing of memories. Though altered. The same stage yet different players.”

The phantom pain of the stab wound swept like a wave of dull fire over his back. Gone in a breath. But the kiss lingered and stayed, staled on his lips.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, did his best to remove the accusation from it but suspected he only mildly succeeded.

“It was not my doing,” it said. “These waters are vessels for the memories I have collected. It isn’t meant for swimming in.”

His look soured. “We didn’t mean to have a dip. I tried to open a rift back to the physical world but it didn’t work.”

It bowed its head, as if in thought, before it unclasped its hands and hovered closer to Lavellan. “The rift was indeed set for Adamant Fortress,” it admitted. “I interfered and waylaid you both into my realm.”

Lavellan tensed, narrowed his eyes at Memory and itched for his daggers but he refrained and waited. Not yet. Hear it out first.

“So you could ask us to retrieve the memories?” he guessed.

“Yes, but that was a mere excuse. I simply needed the Dread Wolf gone.”

“So you can be alone with me.”

“Yes."

“Why?”

“Because I suspect you’re looking for answers.”

He snorted lightly to himself. “I find myself looking for answers about many things lately.”

Memory drifted even closer. He could discern smaller details about it now — the way the core of light within it pulsed like a heart, the hints of a robe on its form, the whispers of a face.

“I hold the answer to a few of them," it said. "Namely, your bizarre circumstance.”

His eyes snapped up to where he deduced its eyes to be, his breath catching.

“I know how and why you were sent back in time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a suspicion this wasn't quite the kiss scene you guys were looking for. (Somewhat inspired by the Hannibal S2 finale which should tell you all you need to know).
> 
> Did I time it so that the bi-weekly updates end here?
>
>> yeah.


	28. To questions never asked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _“When I had all the answers the questions changed”_   
> 
> 
> ― **Paulo Coelho**

_and answers never questioned―_

* * *

He stared at Memory, as upended as the upside-down waterfalls.

“You know?” he asked, faint.

“I do. I am one of many who helped see it come to fruition.”

Lavellan needed to sit down. Since there were no seats around, he settled for the boulder beside him. Solid, steady, dependable boulder. Good on this boulder.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “start from the beginning.”

It hesitated. “What would you consider the beginning?”

“I— I don’t know.” Lavellan rubbed his face, sought answers for so long that being confronted by them now left him uncertain. “Alright, let’s start with why. Why did you reverse time?”

Memory’s light flickered, steady oceanic pulse. “Lost of all his other options, Fen’Harel took a risk with using red lyrium, but that risk proved detrimental. Red lyrium corrupts even powerful beings such as he. He was not in a state of mental fortitude to fight off the red lyrium’s song for long and he knew it. It pressed him to hurry the ritual he had been preparing.”

“The ritual to dismantle the Veil?”

“Yes, but that was not all it would do. Once the Veil fell, the raw power of that event needed to be focused to reshape reality. That would have required his magic. The red lyrium was meant to provide the power needed to collapse the Veil so he could conserve his magic for the reshaping. Unfortunately, the red lyrium had slowly corrupted his magic.”

 _“Tell him red lyrium is not a viable path,”_ Solas had said in that red lyrium future and Lavellan felt it then, the traces of red lyrium in Solas’ magic. But that red lyrium was tame in comparison to the kind Solas used in the past timeline.

“Had he continued as he was, the reshaping of reality would have gone terribly wrong.”

“What was supposed to happen without the red lyrium’s interference?” he asked.

“His creation of the Veil changed the nature of the Fade and the physical realm, and even if he were to remove the Veil, it simply cannot coexist as it once did if left alone. He aimed to ensure the two worlds would meld seamlessly, and in that state, the Elvhen who fled to the Fade and managed to survive could return to physicality. The elves now, such as you, would have also regained their connection the Fade.”

“So essentially the state of existence in Elvhenan?” he asked.

“Yes. But it would have come at the detriment of non-elven. It’s possible some could survive, but that altered state would have torn apart their minds.”

“Fucking hell,” he breathed and rubbed his face. 

"He wished for the elves to have their magic back. Why? He did not disclose to anybody. I suspect he had further plans after.”

Lavellan frowned at it. “Were you allied with him?”

“…Yes,” it admitted and Lavellan tensed but it shook its head. “But I am not here with the intention of misleading you. For you see, that was the intended result, but something had gone wrong.”

“Of course it did,” he muttered, still somewhat apprehensive. “You’d think he’d learn after spending time with me that it never just works. It was the red lyrium, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It is corrupting, and addictive. He had a tolerance, but not immunity, and as I said, he’d steadily lost the mental fortitude required to battle it. He rushed the ritual, magic gradually corrupting, and at that point, we’ve reached a point of no return. Stopping the ritual would be just as much of a detriment as proceeding with it. It was too late. Any appeals to proceed to a different path was rebuffed. He stopped listening, embodied his chosen name excessively, far removed from his usual lucidity.”

Solas. Pride.

“We did not know how his red-lyrium-corrupted magic would alter the results, but we weren’t keen on discovering it. And so, I and a group of powerful spirits altered the ritual without his knowing so that it would work to our favour and use our magic rather than his. The best we could have done was a reversal of time. But we had not accounted for you.”

“Let me guess, I fucked up your plans somehow. Because that would fit. It really would.”

“You have altered its course, yes, but seeing as we did not have a solid course in the first place, I would not dub it as a mistake.” It looked down, the edges of its robes swaying in a non-existent breeze. “You hold within you the Well of Sorrows. It is, by its very nature, preservative so it allowed you to hold onto your memories and tethered you to yourself. You also held the Anchor for a long time and it has given you a unique connection to the Fade. All of these factors combined and made you locked to be a key. Rather than reverse like a stream, time revolved around you.”

He bit his knuckle in thought, processed the information. “The fact that I’m here means your plan worked which means I failed. The Veil fell.” He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. Lavellan released a shuddery exhale. “Let’s say I never threw a wrench into the plan. What would you have done when time reversed? And to when would you have reversed it?”

“We would have reversed it to your battle with Corypheus. The goal was to save Fen’Harel’s foci so that he would never have to seek other avenues.”

His face soured.

“You disagree with that plan.”

“Yes I disagree with that plan because that still means encouraging Solas’ plans to go on ahead. You know, the one where the Veil’s collapse will drive, oh I don’t know, a good number of my friends mad? If the fighting against him during the three years after the Exalted Council wouldn’t already.”

“I may not know what Fen’Harel planned after the Veil’s collapse, but there is danger lurking. We feel it. His plan is necessary.”

He stared at it, ground his teeth. “At what cost? When you don’t even know the supposed danger lurking?”

It remained unfazed despite his anger. “If you feel there is a better course of action, you are free to pursue it. Encouraged, even.”

His anger mounted more because he _felt_ there was a better course of action but he couldn’t see it either. He yelled at Solas that there must be other ways but what other ways were there? If Solas just… told him what was going on, maybe they could think of something else. Not this. Not like this. Not a sacrificial path where he let his own pieces fell, where he was the cause of their fall. Delivered death left and right because that was the only way he saw, because that was his own twisted way of _saving_ those he loved and preventing them from being burdened.

“He just… did it,” he said. “He stabbed me.” Lavellan hugged himself and his lips twisted. “I mean, I stabbed him too last time but―” But there were no pretences that Lavellan was there for anything else besides delivering Solas’ death. Fuck’s sake, they were embracing in the vision. He kissed Lavellan after stabbing him. What kind of―

“If it makes you feel better, that vision has left him torn and shaken. To see the possibility of his actions, to bring about your end… The waters have absorbed his regret. I sent him away for his own sake too.”

“No, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“What do you plan to do about him?”

“I don’t know,” he said, subdued. His gaze dropped and he hung his head. “I don’t know. But he can’t know. He can't know my circumstances.” Had he been a better man, maybe he would’ve felt terrible about lying to Solas, to everyone, but it was resignation and acceptance on his end. This was the only advantage he had over Solas and even Corypheus, and what dying man would relinquish his only weapon?

 _Is unhar sael_ , whispered the Well.[1]

So he did.

“You said we cross-shared memories?” Lavellan asked. “Does he know that’s what happened? My intention of not telling him anything will kind of be rendered null if he figures out what happened from the waters.”

“He would be familiar with the mechanisms of vessels holding memories but he would not have encountered something of this magnitude nor would he have willingly swam in one. It is… not recommended.”

“It almost sounds as if you’re chiding me for taking a dip in the forbidden water,” he grumbled, some tension leaving him. “So he’ll dismiss them as hypothetical situations…?”

“Or unreliable visions, a mixture of many components of individual memories arraying.”

“Like a dream.”

“Precisely.” It paused, swayed in a way that made it seem like it was fidgeting. “And if he asks, I am not beholden to answer him properly. You need not worry. Whether you choose to reveal to him the truth of your circumstance is up to your discretion.”

“But you’ll answer my questions?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “Why? Don’t you work for him?”

Its light flared briefly. “I do not answer to him. I assisted him, yes, but make no mistake. My allegiance is to the safety of this world.”

“Which world?” he challenged

“I made a promise to someone,” it said. “To protect the world. I thought Fen’Harel would deliver the safety of the entire world despite the great cost.”

“He planned to tear down the Veil! I don’t know how that’s delivering the safety of the entire world!”

“I did say at great cost. Sacrificing one canvas over having both be destroyed.”

He muttered under his breath and nearly gouged his eyes out.

“If you stop the Dread Wolf and save the world from him, can you save the world from what he was trying to save it from?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m still dealing with the ancient darkspawn fossil. Can the world just stay fixed for five fucking ages? Why can’t someone else do it? _Besides_ Solas.”

It stared at him. “ _Would_ you be able to leave it up to someone else?”

Lavellan stilled.

“You did not run from being Inquisitor when time reversed. You put yourself through this ordeal, you push to try and change the Dread Wolf’s mind. The world has need of you, and you will not allow yourself to rest so long as you see it as your responsibility. Where do you draw your line? Where do you stop? Will you say you’ll rest after Fen’Harel is defeated?” It may have only had an impression of a face, but its stare still pinned him. “Are you capable of resting?”

_“I’m not fit to exist in stillness.”_

At his silence, Memory’s light softened and it drifted closer, placed its hand over his knee.

“One day,” it said, “I hope it lets you rest. But for now, I am willing to place confidence in you.”

“No,” he whispered, face falling. “Don’t. Don’t put any confidence in me. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t need another person to let down. You can’t pin the fate of an entire world on one person’s shoulders.”

“Must you be alone in bearing it?”

“I’m the only one who remembers,” he hissed. “That’s enough responsibility already!”

“I remember too,” it said. “You and I, we are the only ones to remember. The memories of that future had been entrusted to me to dispense. I thought myself alone too, and I hardly know how to proceed either, but you never asked for this. Our panic and lack of contingency plans has caused you suffering.” It retracted its hand and Lavellan reached into his pocket to grip his grounding stone. “And for that, I apologise. Truly.”

Lavellan could only nod numbly at the apology. “So where does this leave us now?”

To that, it stayed silent and Lavellan almost laughed. Great. The two people left who remembered and they didn’t even know what to do.

“There may be… another option,” said Memory.

He gave it a querying glance.

“I had hoped but… Do you really not recall?” it asked. “Did the Veil’s collapse not stir you?”

“The only thing it stirred me from was my death. Quite rudely too.” Once again, his joking tone missed its mark and it ended up being bitter instead. “What am I supposed to recall?”

Memory held its hands in front of itself and returned to the edge of the water, stared into its depths. “You feel uncomfortable in the Fade, do you not? Pushing, pulling, pressing against all sides of you, even against sides you had not been aware of. Yet this was not the case before.”

The faint needles in his blood prodded at the walls of his veins again but he pushed it away. He could push it away better thanks to Memory. Whatever it did to him.

“You’re saying the Veil’s collapse caused it?” he asked. “But the Veil is intact again. Well, sort of.”

“From blood you were tethered, and to blood you fell, made to forget.” It turned and faced him once more. “You fight to wake against it but blood curdles when left alone and it has grown thick. That is why the Fade hurts you.”

Lavellan stared at it in a long, long, silence. Then, with supreme eloquence, responded, “What the fuck.”

Memory stared back, serene as ever.

“You were doing so well on not being ominous and cryptic,” he sighed. “What’s that supposed to mean now?”

“Something you must discover for yourself.”

“I thought you were going to answer my questions?”

“Yes, but this I cannot. It is for your own sake. Would you rather drink from a glass or open your mouth while submerged in an ocean?”

“You’re very fond of your water metaphors.”

“I like water.”

He looked around him, at the large stretches of water and rising waterfalls. “Yes, I… gathered.”

“But I can point you in the right direction.”

He cast it a sceptical look. “And this will help me with the current situation?”

“It could,” said Memory. “Or it could not. But I can open the path if you wish to traverse it and find out.”

“What is it then?” he asked tentatively.

Memory swept her arm and the surface of the water beside him shimmered briefly with visions of trees and Elvhen ruins before fading to its non-reflective metallic surface. “In the Dirthavaren, there linger remnants of the Elvhen. Those remnants will point you towards your destination. Search for them. Follow them.” It faced him. “But as I said, the blood has curdled and it blocks you from those paths. You have forgotten. But I can help you remember, equip you with the means necessary to push through the curtain yourself.”

“I was following until you mentioned blood again,” he admitted.

Its light flickered again and its swaying slowed slightly, as if it was thinking.

“Memories dwell within the tangible,” it explained. “Even simple Wisps retain and make memories, though limited. Objects can store memories though they cannot make them. Powerful spirits can retain and make ― and steal― memories. Sometimes, memories are locked away by the being to protect themselves. That is the case with you. I can unlock it, in a manner of speaking.”

“Protect myself?” he asked. “What from?” What am I forgetting?”

Memory just gave him a grave look which reassured him little. “Are you sure you want to pursue those questions?”

“You tell me ominous things about myself, say that remembering them might help me deal with Solas, and think I’d say no?” His head spun. He thought getting his answers would end the questions but that was foolish of him.

“Memories are a burden, and you already carry far too many. I do not want to add it. Not when the world does not see it fit to stop piling more atop you.”

“That’s surprisingly considerate of you.”

“Why is that surprising?”

“I―” He pursed his lips and looked away. “You worked for Solas, and I opposed him. Don’t you see me as an enemy?”

“Worked _with_ ,” it said, mildly ticked and he couldn’t help his smile. “And I am Memory, not Cruelty. I, more than anyone, understand the pain and burden memories can bring. I offer you a choice. Will you pursue the path of remembering in the hopes of finding even a scrap of a chance against the Wolf even if it pains you?”

He gripped the stone tighter, rolled it in his hand, wished he had somebody to make the choice for him and understood how Bull must have felt now. What a hypocrite he would be if he deferred to another’s judgement.

“I’ve long been acquainted with pain,” he said. “And I’m out of ideas. I’m going to risk it. What should I expect?” Besides, all this talk of blood had him uneasy, and he disliked the thought of his memories being locked away. By himself, no less. Was it wise undoing it?

Then again, he had a horrible track record with making good decisions so he trusted himself as much as he trusted Sera next to a batch of baked pies.

But he was the one in control of himself and so, terrible idea it was.

“The memories will likely be intrusive, and it may be a shock for your body the first time you remember something of significance.” Off to a great start. “The nature of what you remember and its intensity as well as their triggers will be unknown to me. So again, I ask, are you certain?”

“I’m certain,” he said. His decisions may be terrible but at least he was decisive with them.

Memory seemed the more hesitant out of the two of them, but nevertheless, it held its hand out to the water. Blue lights shimmered in its depths before a bulb of water rose and hovered over its waiting hand. The water became light became mist. Sapphire smoke in its hands that it cupped like a babe.

“Are you ready?” it asked.

Lavellan nodded.

It drifted towards Lavellan and presented the smoky core of light. Let go. The core dissipated and coated him, blanketed, filled the crypts of himself and illuminated them. Memory drifted back.

The Well of Sorrows rushed upwards, clamoured and wondered like children pressing their faces and hands against the glass of a display in morbid curiosity of the oddity within. They hummed. Lavellan found his eyes closing, the entirety of him swaying to the tuneless song.

 _Ma avy eral var’el,_ they hissed.[2]

He startled and his eyes flew open. The Well quelled once more and when he locked eyes with Memory, for a moment, he saw and tasted alpine skies. Gone the moment he noticed. Lavellan shook his head, felt like he woke up after an unsatisfying nap.

“How do you feel?” it asked and drifted closer, perched itself beside him on the boulder.

“Strange,” he said.

“You have chosen a difficult path,” said Memory. “I sincerely wish you well.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at Memory, at the contained glow of its deep blue light, and now that he was closer, he discerned that the expression on the echoes of its face seemed… sad. The same way Cassandra’s eyes looked when she held his sobbing self in her arms, the same way Dorian glanced at him whenever they lapsed into silence while they drank, the same way Sera’s smile looked whenever she offered him food she cooked under the guise of getting his opinion on whether she improved or not but he knew she just wanted him to eat. It punched him in the throat how much he missed them.

“Come now,” he said and attempted a reassuring smile. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll be alright.”

It looked down at its hands, its light dimming slightly. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

His smile turned brittle.

Memory looked at him, eyes aglow, and a whispering recollection curled at the back of his mind.

 _Her_. Memory preferred to be _her_.

“I… I know you,” he said. Frowned. Tentatively, he reached out for her and she raised her hand. Their fingertips touched and he stared at the warm wash of blue over his fingertips, the amorphous edges of her being which was both solid yet not meeting with his too solid form. He searched her face for any traces of familiarity. It was there. Drifted in his subconscious but he couldn’t reach and anytime he tried, a pulse of pain throbbed in his head.

She shook her head. “Do not. You are not ready.” She lowered her hand and some of the sadness abated. Memory smiled. “This is enough.”

“I know you,” he whispered to himself. How? When?

“The Veil’s collapse has caused you such great pain, and yet, selfishly, I am glad. I never would have found you otherwise.”

“What?” he asked.

But she didn’t answer because something caught her attention in the distance. Lavellan looked. It was Solas.

“I will do what I can,” said Memory, voice low as if ensuring Solas wouldn’t hear even if he was still a great distance away. “Examine the memories from Elvhenan and from the previous future in search of what the Dread Wolf is attempting to prevent.”

“Will we meet again?” he asked.

Memory smiled, her light flaring. “One day,” she promised.

She pulled away and they stayed entrenched in contemplative silence while waiting for Solas. His mind spun and tangled over the new information and his new objectives and only left his reveries once Solas arrived cradling four gleaming shards of light. Memory accepted the memories.

“Thank you,” she said and carried the shards to the water where she submerged them. The light diffused, coiled around one another, before the darkness swallowed them. Lavellan glanced at Solas who was already staring at Lavellan. Neither pretended to look away, held the stare, and the self-flagellation lingered behind Solas’ eyes and Lavellan had to wonder what Solas saw in Lavellan’s eyes in return.

“Are you unharmed?” Lavellan asked. A feeble attempt to pretend he had a reason for looking.

“I am,” he said and tried for a smile. “Shall we go? Before they announce you dead and make a martyr out of you.”

“Gods forbid,” Lavellan muttered. “They already write songs about me as if I died. I’d rather not give them reason.” He turned to Memory, paused, felt as if he should say something or do something more. She smiled gently.

“Say the word and I will lead you back to Adamant.” She paused, before she clasped her hands in front of her. “Before you go… Will you entertain a request of mine?”

Lavellan nodded. “What is it?”

She stared at the waters again. “Will you share a memory? Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.”

Safe and warm?

The memory came unbidden but not unwanted, and the echoes of warm night winds brushed against his cheeks, a rich and soothing voice whispering in his ears, warm in embrace. Safe in his mother’s arms.

“I have one,” he murmured.

The scene shifted around them, and the warm breeze became palpable, the waters shifting to grass, the columns of stone shrinking and branching into trees. The green sky became bejewelled navy. Memory’s domain became that of the forest. Lavellan held his hand up to a nearby tree, felt the bark beneath his fingers.

Children’s laughter.

He turned his head, followed the sound. Solas trailed behind him in silence as they passed the tree line and came into a moonlit clearing. Two children ran past him, giggled, shrieked, chased each other in circles in the clearing and his smile softened. There they were, him and his sister. Ellana had twigs in her hair and she ran, crowed in victory as she carried Lavellan’s small bow above her head. Over the trees, he could make out the tops of the purple and blue aravel sails. The colours of Clan Lavellan. Homesickness tore into him.

“Give it back! Lana!”

The younger him who couldn’t have been older than eight chased after Ellana. Rambunctious, energetic Ellana.

Young him tackled her. She screeched. Lavellan laughed with a grimace at the painful noise and Solas stood beside him, an amused smile on his lips.

“Is that you and your sister?”

“Yes. Her shriek is as horrible as I remember.”

Their faces were bare, still absent of the vallaslin.

“Alright, you two. Enough of that,” said a gentle voice behind him. Lavellan froze.

His mother walked past him, staff in hand, white hair braided into a painfully familiar arrangement. It was how he braided his hair when it was long, in memory of her, and he couldn’t help the ragged gasp that escaped him.

“Mamae[3],” complained younger him, “she took my bow!”

“He pulled my hair!”

“You kicked me first!”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Smelly nug says: did not!”

Lavellan’s mother sighed and knelt. “Ellana, return his bow please. Mahanon, why did you pull her hair?”

“She kicked me.”

“Is this true, Ellana?”

Ellana fidgeted, looked down and traced patterns into the dirt with her foot. “He didn’t want to play with me,” she muttered.

As their mother negotiated between them, Lavellan took a hesitant step forward, eyes wide and trained on the back of her head. Her face. What did she look like? He had forgotten.

“Does that sound reasonable to both of you?” she asked. Young him sighed and Ellana beamed.

“Yes mae,” they both said.

“Now come, it is late. Sleep is important.”

“Will you sing again, mae?” asked Ellana.

“Only if you settle in.”

Ellana zipped towards the furs and blankets set up near the edge of the clearing while younger him followed at a more sedate pace. They settled themselves in. His mother placed her staff down, settled down beside them and finally, _finally_ turned and he saw her face for the first time in decades.

Lavellan smiled, eyes blurring from tears.

“Hello,” he whispered.

She wrapped her arms around younger him and Ellana as they settled in on either side of her and smiled. She sang. Her voice settled itself in his mind as if it had not been decades since he last saw her. As if he had never forgotten. He approached, knelt at the edge of the furs and hesitantly reached out for her, ghosted his fingers over her cheek where Sylaise's vallaslin curved.

“ _Iras ma ghilas, da’len [4]_,” she crooned.

“ _Ara ma’nedan ashir_ ,[5]” he sang with her, but he couldn’t continue as his throat seized. His shoulders trembled and the tears fell. Lavellan retracted his hand and let it rest on his lap, contented himself with watching and listening as he wiped his tears. The warm winds whispered, rustled the leaves and became the percussions to her voice. Her voice wasn’t as perfect as he initially thought. Not as in tune, a little flat on the higher parts, but it was the most beautiful sound to him.

Ellana was already asleep by the fourth round. Younger him smiled up at her.

She smiled back at him as she ended her lullaby.

“Why aren’t you sleeping yet?” she asked.

“I wanted to listen,” he admitted.

Lavellan marvelled at how small he was, how youthful, bright-eyed, barefoot and wild. His mother brushed through Ellana’s hair, frowned at the leaves and twigs she pulled out.

“Mae?” asked Mahanon.

“Hm?”

“Ar lath[6].”

She smiled at him and kissed the top of his head. Then looked at Lavellan. Lavellan, as he was now, broken and battered and bruised as he was, and she offered the same warm smile. “Ar lath, Mahanon. Ma ane emma solas i nehn[7].”

Lavellan pursed his lips, hung his head once more and covered his eyes as warm tears slipped between the cracks of his fingers.

“I miss you,” he said through his wavering breaths.

He sobbed in that clearing where the stars glimmered and the night’s breath blanketed them, longing for his mother. Allowed himself to sob without restraint. Let it run its course. Once his sobs dwindled and he was more put together, he stood and wiped the tears, laughed at his snot. His mother was no longer looking at him, instead brushing her fingers through Ellana and Mahanon’s hair.

“Thank you,” whispered Memory’s voice from around them.

Lavellan tilted his head skywards and exhaled, smiled serenely. “No, thank you. I had forgotten her face.” He looked back at his mother, memorised her face, held it close to his chest and treasured this moment.

Solas still lingered by the tree line. Lavellan gestured for him to come over. He faltered but shuffled forward into the moonlight.

“I am sorry,” said Solas. “This is a private moment and I am intruding.”

“It’s no intrusion,” said Lavellan truthfully, too exhausted for lies at the moment.

Solas stared at him but Lavellan kept his gaze resolutely on his mother. Lavellan knew they had to return but he savoured this. Just for a few more moments. His port in the storm before he returned to the rolling waves.

“That lullaby,” said Solas. “You always hum it.”

“Do I?”

“Absentmindedly. We feared bringing it up would make you stop.” He paused. “Do not.”

Lavellan blinked at the request and glanced back at him, but now it was Solas’ turn to not meet his gaze.

“The others enjoy it,” Solas clarified.

“The others?”

He hesitated, before he admitted, “ _I_ also enjoy it.”

The comment unmoored him once again and a traitorous warmth coated his heart.

“It’s home,” he explained because that was easier than acknowledging the conflict of emotions Solas gave him. “What few reminders of her that I have because I’ve forgotten her face. Anytime I tried to remember her, it was like looking into a foggy mirror. She was there, but she wasn’t real. Now she is.” Lavellan’s gaze softened at the scene before him and murmured, “I’m glad she is.”

“May I ask how she died?” he asked softly.

Lavellan recalled it far too easy. “She was sick. The illness claimed her fast.”

“I’m sorry,” said Solas.

“Thank you.”

He remembered this scene one last time, wrapped it with care within the layers of his affection and the folds of his love, held it close to his heart.

“Good night, mamae,” he murmured. Looked up. “Alright, Memory. We’re ready.”

“Open a rift once more. I will redirect you to where the original in Adamant was.”

Lavellan looked to Solas who nodded. He cast one final glance over his shoulder at his mother, sister, and him, before he turned his head. Looked towards the future. He braced himself and reached for the Veil. Solas wrapped his hand gently around Lavellan’s wrist and he weathered through the lightning in his veins. Solas eased it somewhat.

The Anchor latched onto the Veil and Lavellan went through the motions. Turned the key in the lock. A rift sparked. Opened. Lavellan could see the faint images of Adamant and blurry shapes moving.

Together, they stepped forward.

* * *

“Seeker, it’s been hours,” said Varric.

Cassandra stared resolutely at where the rift had once been, palms sore from how hard she gripped the hilt of her sheathed sword, feet aching from her refusal to move. Her shoulder throbbed in its sling but she ignored it. Her quiet vigil. Other Inquisition soldiers joined her, lingered in the courtyard, waited for their Inquisitor.

“He said he will be back,” she said. “Tell the others to stop saying they are dead. They will return. I have faith.”

Varric sighed. “I know you do. I was going to say, you looked cold. I’m going to get you a blanket.”

“No, give that to someone who needs it more.”

He lingered and a few seconds of silence passed between them before Cassandra shot him a curious glance.

"Is there something you needed?"

Varric rubbed the back of his head. “I wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For having my back when we were fighting that demon.”

She smiled and nodded. “You are unhurt?”

“Broken rib, but nothing punctured. How’s the shoulder?”

“Survivable.”

He chuckled. “Seeker, I think you’d consider a stabbed kidney survivable.”

She returned his chuckle, albeit drier. Varric hesitated for a beat before he left her. Cassandra watched the skies where a certain raven circled, also waiting, and for a moment, she felt kindred to the bird. She startled when a blanket fell on her shoulders. Varric fixed it, took care with her shoulder, before he joined her in her vigil. Cassandra clutched the blanket tighter around herself with a secret smile and murmured her gratitude.

The Grey Wardens didn’t know what to make of current events. The Inquisition members refused to pass them judgement, and all anyone ever said was, “We’re waiting for the Inquisitor.” So they carted off their dead, stared into the faces of their mistake, wept in the quiet spaces.

Commander Cullen joined Cassandra and Varric. Blackwall fell in line beside them, followed by a shivering Sera, then Bull who put a blanket over Sera’s shoulders. Cole flitted in the corner where the injured were, brought water to the thirsty, sleep to the weeping, but he too had his eyes intent on where the rift had been, wind whistling in the wake of their aching victory. Vivienne fooled nobody with her pacing. Dorian joined them and stayed beside Bull. Together they stood. A bulwark against the uncertain, a beacon of faith and trust and hope and hope and _hope_.

 _Come home_.

The moon was at its zenith and the desert winds were unkind in this fortress of blood and ruin. Dead bodies had been cleared. Demons turned to ash. But the blood seeped into the stones and not even the tears of the innocent could cleanse them.

 _Come home_.

They whispered the word _martyr_. Whispered _hero, saviour, soldier, leader, legend,_ and Sera hated every word because Lavellan was just _idiot_. There were whispers of the apostate too. _Loyal, humble, wise, kind, defender_. Bull scoffed. Solas was _self-satisfied asshole_ and they still had a game of chess to finish.

Cole wanted them to

_come home―_

Green lightning sparked in the air and the elves in the vicinity, even Sera, felt the Veil surge, rear, lash. Like an elastic pulled back. The string of a bow thwacking on her forearm when she held it strange. Cassandra’s expression lit in hope. They stirred in their vigil during the interim of silence, breaths held.

The Veil tore and the rift opened. They hovered their hands over their weapons, brandished their magic, stared in the face of a green sun and the world beyond it.

And Inquisitor Lavellan stepped out, Solas right beside him. He closed the rift with a hand stretching forwards and gripping, as if ordering a squall to quell. They had no doubts in their hearts that the squall would listen. The rift closed and embers of green snowed over their heads.

Their Inquisitor was home.

* * *

Everyone looked torn between cleaving Lavellan in half or weeping on the spot. Cassandra shouted. Rushed forward and crushed him against her armour in a hug, reached for Solas when he tried to edge away. That broke the stillness in Adamant. The soldiers yelled and cheered in victory, and he found himself crushed in a tight group hug. Solas grunted beside him.

“You’re an ass!” bawled Sera.

Lavellan laughed faintly, squashed under somebody’s armpit.

“Would you all stop being so embarrassing?” swept Vivienne’s icy voice, though it sounded a little more thawed than usual. “Let them breathe. If the Fade will not kill them, then your malodours certainly will.”

They eventually stepped back and gave him and Solas breathing room. Lavellan smiled at them. No more needles in his veins, no more wrongness, no longer felt as if his skin was ill-fitting.

“Sorry for the wait,” he said.

“We would have waited for longer without fail,” said Cullen. “What matters is you’re back.”

A black blot swooped towards Lavellan and he knew the shape, knew that caw, and he held his arm up. His raven perched on it, cawed in distress at him and he brought his arm in to cradle her close. She settled.

Stroud rushed forward, frantic. “Andraste’s mercy,” he muttered once he saw them. “You’re alive.”

“Maker, what will it take to kill you?” came Hawke’s disbelieving voice as she appeared from within the ranks of the other Inquisition soldiers. She stopped in front of him. “No, that came out wrong. I don’t want you dead. Turn.” She grabbed him by the shoulders, manhandled him about, tutting under her breath as she inspected him before she moved on to Solas who tried to dodge her unsuccessfully. After finding whatever she was looking for, she nodded and stepped back. “Good. Not a pair of demons come to shiv us in our sleep.”

“I could do it while you’re awake,” Lavellan said.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that coordinated.”

Lavellan scanned everyone. No visible major injuries within his inner circle besides Cassandra who had her shield arm in a sling. Varric carried himself in a way that suggested either bruised or broken ribs, and Sera’s right eye swelled fierce but that seemed to be it.

“You have got to tell us what happened,” grunted Iron Bull. “That demon was practically shitting on you.”

“Long story,” sighed Lavellan. Very, _very_ long, and something he couldn’t tell them. A Grey Warden caught his attention. The Warden shuffled forward, eyes wide behind his helm, and Lavellan’s expression shifted into one of terse reprimand. Already knew what they were going to ask. Already knew the kind of dissent Lavellan was about to stir up with his choice. It stirred others up last time too.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted. “I stand on behalf of the Grey Wardens. We would like to make up for Clarel’s… tragic mistake.”

“Tragic?” said Hawke, incensed. “Do you know how many people died? Do you even think about anything beyond the Blight?”

“Hawke,” warned Stroud.

“No, fuck this. I held my tongue when we had to run from the giant spider demon, but enough. The Wardens have clearly overstepped and they need severe oversight.”

Not even five minutes back and they were already bickering.

“What, you just gonna bang out the ones who can stop this Blight business?” asked Sera.

Hawke scowled. “I didn’t say kick them out, I’m saying they need stricter supervision.”

“That, but they do need to leave Orlais,” said Vivienne. “They are foolish and desperate and they are the relics of a bygone age.”

Lavellan pursed his lips at that. “With all due respect, Vivienne, the Blight was just ten years ago. I wouldn’t call that a bygone age.”

“Perhaps, but that does not remove the fact that they are single-minded and play with forces they don't understand,” said Solas.

The Grey Wardens looked like children watching their parents fight, cowering away in the corner, framed by the shadows of looming adults spitting and pointing their fingers into the other’s chest.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enough,” he ordered, let his voice carry. That gave pause to the debate and they looked at him in varying states of vexation. “I’ve had a long while in the Fade to think about it, trust me. They’re staying.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Solas. “There may still be corruption within their ranks! Corypheus’ influence may yet linger.”

“I am aware.”

“And you would let them stay?”

 _Well I let you stay, didn’t I?_ Lavellan almost said but held his tongue. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’m putting them far, _far_ away from Corypheus and the Venatori. You’re right, they’re single-minded, and that is their downfall. It’s also their strength. Better I risk it now than be unprepared in the future in the event of a Blight.” Solas looked as if he swallowed a ball of fire. Lavellan fixed the Wardens a hard stare. “But don’t mistake this as leniency. I won’t flagellate you for your actions because you can all do that to yourselves, but I do expect you to atone. For the rest of your lives. Blood is a heavy price to pay. You can start by helping the Inquisition. Even if your intentions were well-meaning, the end goal is not everything. If you twist so far from yourself just to achieve it, you’ve achieved nothing and lost everything.”

The Wardens hung their head, shuffled. Solas sighed behind him. Lavellan wanted to hit him and say, “That’s for you too, dumbass!” He rubbed his face. Fuck, he lost his bow in the Fade.

He turned to Cullen. “Commander, I want a report of how many people we’ve lost, both the Inquisition and the Wardens, and the state of our injured. Identify them as best as you can. Every single one. A name to every face, and if they have one, family or close friends.” More letters to write. “I want the state of the injured and an inventory of our supplies.”

Cullen nodded. “At once.”

Lavellan paused, thoughts momentarily drifting back to the answers in the Dales, itched to find it, itched to figure things out, but no. He needed to get his immediate duties out of the way first.

“Let’s bury the dead,” he murmured. “We do that first, then we… figure all this out. I’m not forcing anybody. You know yourself best. Rest if you’re tired or hurting. Today has been a very long night for all of us.”

“What about you?” Dorian asked gently. “You need to rest too. You’ve been under quite the ordeal.”

“I’ll rest after this,” he said.

They set to work. The night was far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch as DA4 proves me wrong on all accounts. (Lavellan, honey, please sit down for like five minutes and get some rest, holy shit). 
> 
> Editing this chapter took me longer than usual because I've been hit and crippled by feelings about Solas and the writing and the characterisation and I'm wanting to do that so much justice and I'm trying my best oh god please let me do this justice. This is a brilliant character right here. Not a morally good one, but the complexity, the intricacies, the DILEMMAS! Some good fucking food. 
> 
> tl;dr gripped by Solas feels. Hurts. 
> 
> Somewhat unrelated but Harry Hadden-Paton who is the British Male VA for the Inquisitor also sings in the 2018 Broadway production of My Fair Lady and now I can't get the thought of modern AU theatre actor Lavellan out of my head.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Is unhar sael:** He lied first.[⇧]  
> [2] **Ma avy eral var’el:** You have been asleep too long.[⇧]  
> [3] **Mamae:** Mother.[⇧]  
> [4] **Iras ma ghilas, da'len:** Where will you go, little one[⇧]  
> [5[ **Ara ma'nedan ashir:** Lost to me in sleep?[⇧]  
> [6] **Ar lath:** I love (you).[⇧]  
> [7] **Ma ane emma solas i nehn:** You are my pride and joy.[⇧]


	29. Grasped the endless undertaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise early Monday update and another this Thursday just for this week because of convoluted reasons I won't bore you with.
> 
> I see some people are theorising 👀 They’re all very interesting theories.
> 
> Happy reading.

_burdens of teeming chasms waking―_

* * *

“Stroud is on his way to Weisshaupt,” said Leliana, watched Lavellan’s raven eat from her hands. “We’ve sent a few of the Grey Wardens to the Storm Coast and let a few remain in the Western Approach to deal with the darkspawn and any demons they encounter.”

“I’ve sent word to the Hessarians at the Coast too. They’ll work with and supervise the Wardens and keep an eye out for more Venatori smugglers. After our ambush on them a few weeks ago, I doubt they’re willing to risk dealing near the Coast ever again.”

“Good. And we have a strong presence at the Approach. The Venatori are unlikely to visit these areas.” Her hood was down today ― a rare occurrence. “You’ve dealt Corypheus a significant blow, Inquisitor.”

His raven soon had her fill and perched herself back on his shoulders. He rubbed the underside of her beak with his finger and she fluffed her feathers. She really needed a name. Lavellan hated every single one he came up with because they didn’t _fit_ and it had to fit because he grew increasingly attached to this raven and she deserved the best.

“We should spread word that the Grey Wardens support the Inquisition,” he said. “They carry respect in other nations. Especially the ones who suffered during the Blight.”

“I will take it up with Josephine.” She put the grains in her hand back into its canister and dusted her hands off, gaze distant. “Thank you for letting the Wardens stay. By any chance, was the Hero of Ferelden at Adamant? I’ve heard nothing about it but maybe…”

She must be worried about Tabris. “No, she wasn’t there.”

Leliana relaxed slightly. “I see.”

“You must miss her.”

“More than I can bear, sometimes,” she admitted. “But she has a duty, as do I. Perhaps when this is all over… Perhaps I can join her. But for now, we must plan for what is to come. Taking a large portion of Corypheus’ army will mean nothing if Orlais falls to chaos, and I fear his agents are sowing dissent among the court.” Oh, they sure were. One of them was even arranging the masquerade where all the important people of Orlais were conveniently gathered! “We have three months until the masquerade at Halamshiral. Josephine and I are still trying to arrange the matter of invitations but I suspect the arm-twisting we need to do will decrease once word of your ordeal at Adamant spreads.”

“Is this literal arm-twisting?”

“Inquisitor, how could you accuse me of such a thing?”

His raven cawed and took flight, dashed out of the rookery’s open door. Off to do her thing once more.

“I hope she doesn’t steal more things,” he muttered under his breath.

Leliana smiled. “Still no name for her?”

“Afraid not.”

“Perhaps something in elven,” she suggested. “Your language is lovely and elegant. It befits her, wouldn’t you say?”

He chuckled. “Bull calls her mayhem.”

“Elegant mayhem.”

They shared a soft laugh before her eyes shifted into something sombre. She steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them. “Divine Justinia…” she started. “Her soul, or the spirit which took on her form… What was she like?”

He recalled the message she wished he delivered to Leliana. “Calm,” he said. “Cryptic. But she was patient and understanding. She— In the Fade, the first time, she pushed me out of the way of the Nightmare demon and— I’m sorry, Leliana. I couldn’t—”

She shook her head, placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “No, Inquisitor. Do not blame yourself. Thank you for trying. I know you did your best.”

 _It wasn’t enough._ “She wanted me to tell you something.” Leliana glanced up at that. “She said: I’m sorry. I failed you too.”

Her expression saddened, crestfallen. “Oh,” she whispered and retracted her hand, closed her eyes with a sigh. She turned away and raised her hood once more, gaze on the small shrine she assembled in an alcove of the rookery. “Thank you,” she murmured, and stood, leaned over the rookery’s banister.

Solas was below them, hunched over his table, hands flying over sheets of parchment filled with sketches.

“He is planning for the next fresco,” she observed.

Lavellan watched him work, then sighed. “He is upset with me.”

“Lover’s quarrel?” she asked, smiled slyly over her shoulders.

“We’re not lovers,” he said. _What were they now?_ “Besides, I argue with him so often that I doubt he harbours any feelings of that nature.”

_And yet he kissed you so tenderly as he wrenched the knife in your back._

“And what of you?”

He laughed dryly, the sound feeble. “If you want drama of this kind, look towards Dorian and the Iron Bull. Perhaps Ambassador Josephine’s secret admirer.” _To whichever god out there would listen, watch over Blackwall and may Leliana never cut off his balls._

Leliana didn’t take the bait. “I already know. And that Sera has been spending an interesting amount of time in the Undercroft. A young Templar has taken an interest in one of my agents, unfortunately she much prefers the company of women. Though another healer girl is fond of that very Templar. Bull’s lieutenant? Acclasi? Unable to sit still as he listens to a certain someone’s songs. I could list them all, Inquisitor.” She was undeterred by his souring look. “You, however, have been a great source of debate and mystery.”

“Barely any mystery on my end.” He paused. “Wait, debate? Amongst whom?’

“Skyhold,” she said, much too cheery this early in the morning. “And I digress. You and Solas?”

“He is a talented mage with brilliant knowledge and insight to share, and I respect him.”

“Or course, Inquisitor,” she said, voice practically dripping with haughtiness and he made a grumbling sound at the back of his throat.

He threw his arms up. “I’m going to go get some paperwork sorted before I judge Erimond this afternoon.” It may just numb his mind enough that he wouldn’t throttle Erimond right in the middle of the Great Hall later. Lavellan headed for the stairs, told himself that he was _not_ escaping. There was much left to do, was all. Besides the matters within the Inquisition, now he had personal matters on top of everything. Meeting Memory answered one question, but twenty more arose in its place but he supposed that was just how it went. Learn new things, find more questions. On and on. How could he justify going to the Dales? Maybe say he wanted to see the state of the civil war?

So embroiled was he in his thoughts that he missed the door to enter the Great Hall through the library and instead descended all the way to the bottom of the atrium. Right in Solas’ rotunda.

Oh.

Leliana must be cackling silently above them.

He could always continue ahead but Solas was already looking at him, lips still pressed together in his displeasure. Lavellan sighed.

“How long exactly have you been looking like you’ve swallowed a box of nails?” he asked.

Solas straightened. Lavellan noted the charcoal stains on the side of his hand and tips of his fingers as he approached.

“Are you not at all concerned about sending the Grey Wardens out? So soon after Adamant?”

“It’s not as if I sent them alone,” he huffed. “The Inquisition has a strong presence in the Approach, and the Blades of Hessarian have the Coast. After the business with the Qunari, I doubt the Venatori would return there either.”

“Why did you give them another chance?”

Lavellan’s gaze skated over the frescoes, at the howling wolves in the fresco detailing the birth of the Inquisition. Records of Lavellan’s actions but Solas had placed a little of himself there too. Looking back on it, all the clues were here. In his art, in his presentation, mannerism, views, actions. He looked back at Solas.

In his words.

“Why did I give them another chance?” he repeated. Looked up in thought, then shrugged. “Because I’m a fool with a wretched heart. I want to give those who want to atone a chance to do so. Was their plan of directly killing an Old God to circumvent the Blight a terrible idea? Yes. Was their use of blood magic dangerous, irresponsible, and inane? Absolutely. And they know it. So, let them prove themselves. They will carry the death of their comrades on their conscience.”

Solas stared at him, lips pressed less, but he still had that minute scrunch to his brows and Lavellan really shouldn’t pay these things such close attention.

“How are you this idealistic?” he asked.

“You are so grim and fatalistic sometimes that I just want to be as idealistic as possible to annoy you.”

“I _am_ grim and fatalistic. There is no sometimes.”

“We should swap one day. You be the idealist and I can be the fatalist.”

“I would not like to see you become one. Your convictions are your strength. You are unflappable, even in the wake of the adversities you face.” Solas turned away, gaze unfocused. “And I have already tried idealism,” he murmured.

Lavellan watched him, smiled softly as he asked, “Would you care to try again?”

He didn’t answer it.

“In any case, the Blight is not something one smugly outsmarts,” Solas said instead and walked back to the table.

Lavellan suppressed another sigh. “What’s done is done. We did what we could in a difficult situation. Now, we move forward.”

He picked up his charcoal once more and returned to sketching.

“Indeed,” said Solas. Lavellan hovered where he stood, before he took that as a dismissal and made to leave. But then― “This friend of yours,” said Solas and Lavellan stopped. “The one you said I loosely resembled…” Lavellan’s blood chilled. He gave Solas a hesitant look over his shoulder but Solas was still hunched over the sketches on the desk, charcoal scratching on paper. “Why did you kill them?”

The question struck Lavellan silent. It stretched too long between them and Solas stopped drawing, hung his head, turned his profile away.

“No, I apologise,” he said. “It was an intrusive question and I should not have asked it.”

Lavellan licked his suddenly dry lips, mind flashing through brimstone and ringing metal and slick blood.

“I had to,” he answered softly. Solas’ head rose, likely hadn’t expected Lavellan to answer. “I had to. He endangered the lives of those I cared about.”

“Did you care for him?”

He had to pause before he could answer because otherwise, a dry, incoherent sound would’ve escaped. “Very much.”

Solas’ hand clenched on the table, smudged the charcoal on the page.

“Would you do it again?”

Lavellan stared at the tense line of his shoulders. “I would prefer not to.”

Another lapse of silence. Solas straightened his back and his hands shook as he raised them off the table to clasp them behind him. He faced Lavellan with a haunted look.

Oh.

He was shaken from the Fade.

“What… What did you see?” Lavellan asked gently. “In the Fade?”

“Like you, Inquisitor,” he said though his voice was faint, “I killed someone who I…” Solas looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him for long. “I killed someone dear to me.”

Lavellan held himself dreadfully still in fear that a sob or a struggling noise would escape and give himself away.

“Would you actually do it?” Lavellan found himself asking.

And Solas gave him a sad, wry smile. “I would prefer not to,” he echoed. Solas stared at his murals though his gaze was faraway. “Do you recall in Haven when you told me you do not want to lose yourself in your role and the title others have given you without your consent?”

It seemed like a distant memory already. “Yes.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask…” He looked at Lavellan again and he could tell it pained Solas to do so. To force himself to stare Lavellan in the eye. “Please stop me if I ever lose myself.”

“Do you think I can?”

“I think you have a good chance.”

“I’ll stop you from losing yourself first,” declared Lavellan. “Will you do the same for me?”

He and Solas shared a long look. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Solas cracked a tentative smile. “You have yourself a deal.”

* * *

The Great Hall was full. It relieved him, somewhat. As beautiful and grandiose as the Great Hall was in Elvhenan, it was also frigid and vacant, and Lavellan would hate to preside over it. Now though, it was packed. Everybody watched him as he walked towards the throne for the judgements and the increased weight of their reverence rested like a viscous mantle of honey and bone.

He supposed walking out of the Fade twice tended to do that.

The throne though… They changed it.

Lavellan stopped. Stared. This was the first time he had been in the Great Hall after returning from the Approach. They did not choose the flames of Andraste this time. Not the seat borne of fire.

No, not this time.

From the back of the new seat burst three large pairs of unfurling wings, the rays of a stylised sun crowning the top of the seat’s back, all of them carved of stone. The rays and the edges of the wings were gilded and when the sun hit the stained glass behind the throne right, colour reflected off the gilt and painted the walls in numinous light.

“Impressive, is it not?” asked Josephine who beheld the throne with him. “They wanted to finish it before you got back.”

His words died. All he could do was gawk. Lavellan turned to the rest of the Hall and wonder danced within their eyes, but even through the crowd, he could pick out Solas and his steady stare. What was he thinking?

“Why wings?” he asked Josephine.

“I believe they were inspired by your raven. They considered flames to, if you will excuse my pun, herald back to Andraste.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“They wanted you to have your own symbol, I suspect. Separate from Andraste, separate from the Inquisition.”

He looked at her, baffled. “Why?”

“I am not entirely sure. Are you… unhappy with it?”

Unhappy? _Unhappy?_

“Josephine this is remarkable. And I feel entirely undeserving of the gesture. I would like to meet with the sculptors to thank them.”

She smiled and wrote on her board. “I will certainly pass the message on, Inquisitor. Are you ready to receive the defendants?”

He was going to sit on _that_? Holy shit.

“How many?”

“Two.”

Lavellan steeled himself and lowered himself onto the throne, marvelled at how comfortable it was.

Feared how comfortable it was.

If he spent long enough like this, how soon would he forget himself and lose himself in the legend? Forget Mahanon and become Inquisitor. Herald. Nameless and faceless save for his stories which would worsen and twist the more the decades passed.

Strangely, the deal he made with Solas gave him some peace of mind.

“Bring them in,” he said to distract himself.

The guards escorted a Grey Warden in chains, her head and shoulders slumped, shadows beneath and within her eyes. Lavellan gripped the arm rest again. Josephine introduced her as Ser Ruth. Willingly handed herself in for the crime of killing another of the Order to bind a demon.

“I can’t use the greater good to justify my crimes,” cried Ser Ruth. “As if it would create a future I could be a part of! Let me be an example of the cost. Know that this is the line, and it isn’t to be crossed.”

“You think the example of your death will draw the line more clearly?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He frowned. “How long do you think a warning lasts, Ser Ruth?”

“I…” She paused, watched him in confusion.

“Your death, whether as an example or not, won’t accomplish what you hope it will.” His gaze softened. Always had a soft spot for those like her. “Do you regret your actions?”

“Every second,” she said.

“Good.” He eased his grip on the arm rest. “Death is too easy. Atone like the rest of the Wardens. Dedicate what’s left of your life for the betterment of others, be another helping hand in the world, not another meaningless death.”

“But Your Worship― This isn’t… What message does this send?”

“That answering death with death isn’t always the path to go. This is your punishment, Ser Ruth. You will be doing your own work independent from the Wardens. I expect monthly reports of what you’ve been up to.”

She hung her head, mulled it over, before she glanced up at him with glistening eyes. “Yes, Your Worship. I will spread good in the world, in whatever capacity I can.”

He nodded. The guard beside her freed her from her shackles and she left the Great Hall. Lavellan slumped slightly, tension leaving him. Now came the next one. A smarmy brat.

Erimond’s protests could be heard a mile away. Lavellan’s mood darkened and he rested his cheek against his knuckles, drummed his fingers on the other arm rest. Erimond resisted on the way to Skyhold too and Lavellan did everybody and himself a favour when he knocked Erimond out for the whole trip. What a peaceful trip that had been.

“When you present him,” Lavellan said to Josephine, “drop his titles. Just call him Livius. He has no power here.”

Erimond appeared at the Great Hall’s entrance, skulking across the Hall with a sneer.

Josephine cleared her throat. “I present Livius, who remains loyal to Corypheus.”

He rounded the sneer on Josephine who remained unfazed.

“I am a _lord_ , you bitch! Introduce me as such!”

“Lord you bitch Livius,” said Lavellan smoothly, “I appreciate that we all weren’t raised in the latrine like you, so do refrain from yelling.”

A few laughs from those in the Hall and Erimond’s face reddened.

“I recognise none of these proceedings,” he spat. “You have no authority to judge me.”

“On the contrary,” said Josephine. “Many officials have communicated that they will defer to the Inquisitor on this matter.”

“Because they _fear_. Not just Corypheus, but Tevinter, rightful ruler of every piece of ground you’ve ever trod in your pathetic life, _rattus_.”

Someone gasped.

He was going to enjoy driving a sword through this bastard’s gullet. Briefly, he considered declaring him Tranquil. Briefly. It stood against his morals and so he wouldn’t actually do it but holy _fuck_ was he _tempted_.

“I served a living god!” declared Erimond. “Bring down your blades and free me from the physical. Glory awaits me. My master will cut off your ears and hand and hang them as his trophy!”

Lavellan didn’t humour his sad attempts to goad him. “Any protection you thought you had has been withdrawn. You will die by my hand.”

“Petty actions! Truth lies in the next world.”

A slow grin spread across Lavellan’s lips and he leaned forward, actions slow but laced with unnerving intimidation.

“Pray to your so-called god when I send you there then,” he warned. “So I can promptly send him to you too.”

“Empty promises.”

His grin widened. He had a feeling he looked rather deranged like this. “I will send him to you in pieces.” The guards escorted Erimond away to the execution stand while he screamed and carried on the whole way. Lavellan stood. The crowd in the Hall flooded outside, wanted to watch the execution or return to their duties.

Josephine shot him a concerned look. “This is your first formal execution, isn’t it?”

Not really. He’d done it before. “Come now, don’t give me that look. I’ll be fine.”

They walked across the Hall. Solas turned and walked back into the rotunda and Lavellan couldn’t blame him. He never was the type to make a spectacle out of death sentences.

The execution stand was propped up on the battlements and it would offer a nice view of the mountains just before their head rolled. Naturally, Lavellan had Erimond facing away from the mountains. Such a beauty was lost on him. Commander Cullen wordlessly handed him the ceremonial sword, a dragon curled around its hilt, the very sword he raised in the name of justice.

They blindfolded Erimond and the mages held him down with a spell. He spat at them in Tevene.

Lavellan ascended the steps, knew he could take the head off with one strike, but again this man had him considering options disagreeable with his values. _Maybe I can hit wrong, cause maximum pain, take at least five tries. Essentially hack it off._ Lavellan was very, _very_ tempted.

“The world will burn and my master will rise. We will be the mage kings beside him!” rambled Erimond. Lavellan hefted the sword over his head. “All of you will die and we will―”

Lavellan swung the sword down.

* * *

In the end, he cut Erimond’s head off in one, clean slice and that seemed to surprise everybody more than the head rolling away. Either way, he reached his limit at that point. Just wanted the slimy, smarmy, cretin to shut up and fondle his balls to his god elsewhere in another world separate from Lavellan. After the execution, he walked the battlements with Varric and Hawke.

“That was a clean execution,” noted Hawke. “Should have taken your time though. Maker knows the last person who needed mercy was him.”

“Believe me, I was tempted to not do it properly.”

When did he become so blasé about execution and killing? Was it difficult for him the first time? Did he tremor afterwards and feel the weight of the blood on his palms, sticking to his skin? Or did he shrug it off? Another necessity in the role of Inquisitor?

“Do you ever wonder if you should feel more after you kill someone?” he asked, his question carried and softened by the mountain wind.

Hawke kept her gaze ahead and whispered, “Always.”

“It’s tiring,” said Lavellan and they stayed quiet in their agreement.

One day, his new normal would be something simple. No death, no blades, no blood. It was too much to ask for at this point but dying from old age would be nice.

Lavellan knew that ending was not for him, though.

“How’re your injuries?” he asked Hawke to break the silence.

“Don’t have them.”

Varric sighed and Lavellan laughed softly.

He still couldn’t believe it. Hawke and Stroud were both alive and nobody was stuck in the Fade ― discounting him and Solas but that all worked out after great emotional turmoil. As before, Hawke wanted to fight Corypheus independently. She also still had no interest in staying at Skyhold no matter how much Varric cajoled. In the end, they arrived at a compromise: Hawke was to help with the Venatori and Red Templar business, especially hunting down red lyrium smugglers since it could help determine how to handle Samson, meanwhile, Skyhold was open to her should she wish to return. They might also cross paths if their travels and goals overlap.

“One last nag,” teased Lavellan. “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“I’ve been on good behaviour lately. I don’t want to ruin it. But some people here… try me. Said people are important to your Inquisition.”

Lavellan looked away to hide his grimace. He suspected she was referring to Cullen.

“Where are you off to next?” he asked instead.

“Back to the Approach again,” she said. “Cleaning up, keeping a close eye on the Wardens, flushing out any remaining Venatori.”

“When are you heading out?”

“Two days.” She sighed and rubbed the back of her head. “I have to go talk to Leliana about getting everything sorted, actually.” Hawke hesitated, lips pursed and brows furrowing as if deliberating something and the more it built behind her mouth, the more it soured. “Inquisitor, I― In the Fade…” She searched for words, stance awkward, before she nodded to herself and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”

And Hawke loathed owing anybody anything.

“You owe me nothing,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re all alright.”

Hawke eyed him as if looking for a hidden trick, a coming punchline, but Lavellan had none. For another wrenching moment, he longed for the friendship and companionship they built up over a course of six years, and now, starting over. Perhaps what he truly dreaded was that he would never be able to forge the friendships that meant the world to him this time. Because he was changed. Some friendships arose out of the situation Solas brought down upon them, so what was he sacrificing by shifting course?

“You’re completely serious, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I’m not keeping tally of lives, Hawke. They’re not currency.”

And she gave him a heavy, meaningful look. Shifted in the darkness of her eyes. “They have to be. They have to become currency. You can’t keep going like this, aiming to save everyone and everything at the end of the day. This isn’t how this works.” The _believe me, I tried_ went unspoken but it dangled overhead.

“Hawke,” warned Varric.

“I know,” Lavellan said softly. “We’re at war, I know. I’m not trying to save everyone. I’ve acknowledged there will always be loss, but I can’t let the people fighting for me fade into pieces on a board or pins on a map.”

She deflated at his answer. “That’s incredibly exhausting. That’s not sustainable.”

Lavellan smiled wryly. “I know, but I’ll take it over the alternative.”

“Which is?”

_“I told you to deploy them!” he snapped._

_Cassandra hardened her features and stood her ground. “If I did, they would have died. You are not thinking clearly. We will speak of this when you have calmed.”_

“Something I hate,” he said. _Someone_ he hated. It was a fucking miracle anybody stuck beside him at all during that first year after the Exalted Council. He had been at his worst. A font of spitfire and paranoia and a ruthlessness he promised he wouldn’t succumb to when he was still Inquisitor.

Hawke sighed and turned away. “Either you haven’t seen enough shit to think that way or you’ve seen enough shit that you’ve resolved to be like that.”

Lavellan laughed without humour. “I wish it was the first one, believe me.”

“I do,” she said. Crossed her arms and stalked off with a casual, “I’ll see you two around then,” thrown over her shoulder and he had no time to return the abrupt goodbye as she left him and Varric alone on the battlements.

“Sorry, she’s like that,” chuckled Varric who had been suspiciously quiet for most of that conversation.

“It’s part of her charm,” he said. Nudged Varric’s shoulder. “But what about you? Everything alright?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Well the answer is obviously no and it’s going to stay that way for an awfully long time,” he joked, but they both knew it rang truer than they would have liked.

Varric rubbed his face and stopped walking, leaned against the merlons of the battlements.

His gaze focused on something in the far distance. “I thought you and Chuckles died,” said Varric, voice breaking off into a whisper mid-sentence. “I mean, yeah, obviously a lot of people have already died but it… It was different. Not less important. Just distant. And then I was hit with how _not_ invincible we are. Terrible of me to only start caring properly when it was someone I knew, huh? You’d think I learned.”

“That’s not terrible, Varric. That’s just normal.” How depressing it was that this was the normal. That it was normal to anticipate death, to be so numbed to death and killing because it was something done almost every day. “And it’s shitty that it is but experiencing it so often just… numbs you to it.”

“You said it.” He chuckled. “You think we’re ever catching a break?”

Lavellan still wondered himself. “We will. In little bits and pieces. The world sure as hell isn’t giving it to us so we have to steal some.”

“Stealing breaks for ourselves, ha! Like we’re some kind of phantom thieves of the night.”

“Roguish law flouters,” Lavellan agreed.

“Charismatic daredevils.”

“Rapscallions.”

“Rotten apple of the bunch.”

“I’m a very handsome rotting apple,” said Lavellan.

Varric nodded sagely. “You sure are.”

They shared a small laugh and watched the small patches of blue sky peering through the overcast clouds. They were easing into mid-winter so this was a little window of fair weather. It would snow again later, he was sure.

“Are you going to miss Hawke?” Lavellan asked.

“Yeah, a little.” Varric shrugged. “But I know she’ll just be unhappy here. She doesn’t do well settling in one place for too long. I don’t think… I don’t think she can.” His tone softened. “I feel like she thinks she’s letting others down if she’s not doing anything. I keep reminding her that’s not true. Maybe one day it’ll stick.”

Lavellan understood all too well.

“For now,” Varric continued, “I’m not forcing her to stay. That’s not what she needs right now.”

“You’re a good friend, Varric.”

“Am I? The Nightmare was right about one thing at least. I did this to her.”

“Hey,” said Lavellan, “no. That’s not true either. Bad things sometimes happen for no reason. It isn’t anybody’s fault.”

He sighed. “Sometimes you need something to blame.”

“Why don’t we blame the years of corruption that broiled in the closed pot that is Kirkwall?”

“Too vague.”

“Fine,” he grunted. “Blame the dreary architecture.”

Varric opened his mouth to argue, paused, closed it with a considering hum. He laughed in mild disbelief. “You know what? Fine by me. Bad things happened because Kirkwall had shit architecture. Orlais better watch out.”

“Isn’t there an assassination plot against the Empress?”

“It’s all coming together, Inquisitor. It’s all coming together.”

* * *

Lavellan’s feet dragged behind him after he left the War Room, mulling over the two letters in his hand. One from his Keeper, the other from Lady Guinevere. He needed an answer to give the advisors when they reconvene tomorrow morning.

His feet led him to the rotunda where Solas was busy painting over the section of wet plaster he spread for the day. Lavellan murmured a greeting and Solas tilted his head in acknowledgement. He eyed Solas’ current progress. He was working on the Grey Warden’s crest at the moment, paint still translucent, but Lavellan knew it would dry into its vivid colours. It was such a complex process which required patience and finesse. Solas had both. His brushstrokes were precise, confident, swift. A race before the plaster dried.

“Going well?” asked Lavellan.

Solas hummed in affirmation, fingers speckled with dried plaster and a mix of powdered pigments. He changed brushes when needed smoothly, called the instruments with a flick of his wrist and they would come flying into his waiting hands, haloed green with his magic. It mesmerised Lavellan, watching Solas work.

“Did you get your staff replaced?” Lavellan asked.

“Dorian lent me an old staff. It should suffice for now.”

“I know staves act as a focusing and channelling instrument but do you feel a difference between each staff? Is there some sort of compatibility issue there?” Lavellan settled himself into the chair. Solas looked at him over his shoulder and smiled at the question.

“There is. Of course, a staff is a staff just as a cup is a cup. They will serve the same function.”

“But cups come in different designs and make. You’re bound to like one type or types over others.”

“And you can drink better from one than another,” he agreed. “In this case, assume Dorian and I have overlapping preferences in our cups.”

“Sapphire encrusted moonstone chalice?” Lavellan teased.

Solas laughed and resumed his work and Lavellan noted with interest that he never answered. Ergo, probably didn’t mind shiny sapphire encrusted moonstone chalices. The tension between them had faded from Adamant and he suspected Solas received just as much peace of mind as he did after they struck their deal.

Lavellan laid the two letters on the table once their conversation trailed away, stared at them for an awfully long time. The death of the Venatori advisor stirred the nobles into blaming games, ready to hunt the elves. For _sport_. The lyrium withdrawals from Wycome’s population also didn’t help and it wasn’t hard for him to envision the ease in which they could be convinced to commence lynching. Leliana suggested sneaking the elves in. Cullen suggested sending forces lest the elves and his Clan be killed. Lavellan suggested he needed a break because he had a blinding headache.

No notes from Ellana. Lavellan wasn’t sure if that was a source of worry.

Someone placed a plate of food in front of him. Lavellan startled, stared up at Solas who was already wiping his hands clean.

“You have not eaten dinner, I hear,” said Solas. “And it is already close to midnight.”

“You’re done already?”

Solas’ lips twitched. “Inquisitor… It has been almost an hour.”

“What?” Lavellan blinked. “No, that can’t be right, I just sat down.”

“Yes, and in that time, you did not notice me finish, clean up, and retrieve food.”

Lavellan leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Good gods, he hadn’t realised. How long did one person need to agonise over the fate of his entire family?

He pursed his lips and stared back at the letters. “I don’t know if I can eat. The worry has chased my appetite away.”

“Your Clan?”

He nodded. Solas stood beside him and gestured at the letters.

“May I?” he asked. Lavellan let him read them.

“They’re in immediate danger,” Lavellan explained. “Leliana suggested sneaking them into the city, Cullen thinks we need to send forces.”

“That seems to be the Commander’s usual,” remarked Solas and Lavellan chuckled. “What is dividing your choice?”

“Lady Guinevere is warning against sending a force, but… If I wait too long― I don’t know, Solas. It’s not just my Clan. The elves in the alienage are in danger too, and I had the lyrium removed from the well so everyone in Wycome is suffering from withdrawal.” He massaged his temple. “The nobles are also unimpressed after the Venatori advisor’s… unfortunate fate.”

Solas hummed, quiet in his contemplation. He put the letter down. “If I might make a suggestion?” he offered.

“I would appreciate it,” he sighed.

“Sneak them in,” he said. “I know you are hesitant because they are important to you, but it would be a mistake to act in haste now. You would undo the efforts your patience has wrought. I suspect, even under the effects of red lyrium, that Wycome would have a significant standing army. Sending in forces would result in being unheard at best or embroiling the city within battle at worst. I would heed Lady Volant’s wisely hidden words.”

Lavellan wrung his hands, more calmed from his words, but still significantly worried. He didn’t… Didn’t want to make another panic-driven choice that would cost the elves their lives. Or worse. What if the calculated decision he made was the one that led to ruin?

Solas, having sensed Lavellan’s hesitance, continued. “And perhaps, the people of Wycome could be… convinced that the Dalish are not so terrible. You know well that those in power are empowered yet bound by their role.” Lavellan glanced at Solas but his gaze was faraway. “If the people banded together and declared themselves louder than the collective nobility…”

He caught on. “The nobility has to back off.”

“You’ve exploited this before. With the Chantry.”

“In my defence, they were getting aggravating and were just generally being unhelpful when they were most needed.”

“I was not criticising it, lethallin.”

Lavellan stayed quiet, pondered, and a thought occurred.

“The Keeper and my sister can help with the easing withdrawal symptoms.” He slowly brightened. Yes. That was a good start. “Pain can make a person do regrettable things, and if it is eased…”

Solas nodded. “It appears you have your answer.”

He barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh Solas, I never do. A possible solution, maybe. Not an answer. Never an answer.”

“No?”

“No.” Lavellan folded the letters. “I am wary of answers. They’re simply questions in disguise.”

“Ah. A phenomenon which plagues even the brightest scholars and philosophers.” He pushed the plate towards Lavellan, still steaming and warm. “Eat.”

“Have _you_ eaten?”

“I eat on a more regular basis than you, at any rate.”

“Not an answer.”

“Answers are questions in disguise.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Solas laughed faintly and gestured at the plate once more. “Will I have to ask again or must I spoon feed you like the child you adamantly try to be?”

“Oh look who’s talking.” Lavellan rolled his eyes but pulled the plate closer anyway and offered the bread to Solas.

“I’m alright, thank―”

Solas’ stomach rumbled.

The two of them paused, before Lavellan wordlessly cut the bread, filled it with meat and vegetables, and practically shoved it into Solas’ hands.

“I won’t eat if you don’t,” Lavellan huffed.

“Child,” Solas muttered.

“Egg,” he returned.

They ate, still smiling softly, relishing the quiet. Lavellan liked night. Liked the quiet when everyone lay dreaming or sleeping as he roamed or haunted as Varric liked to say. Haunted Skyhold. Its sentinel, never at rest.

“You know Solas,” he started, “for someone who likes dreaming, you sleep less than I thought.”

Solas long since finished his food and was just content to remain with Lavellan, and he was unsure about what to do with that information.

“I lose track of time when I paint. The penalty of being engrossed in one’s craft, I suppose.”

Lavellan nodded, understood. He was the same with his whittling, and speaking of, he was almost done with everyone’s pieces. Only had Blackwall’s left to finish and he was still undecided on what animal to carve for Cole.

Cole. Gentle Cole. Helpful Cole.

Cole who shed Cole and returned to being Compassion. Compassion who was Cole who materialised on the table in front of Lavellan in coils of smoke, crouching, feet deftly poised on unoccupied spaces so as not to step on any paper. Lavellan didn’t even startle any more. He ate the last of his food and dusted his hands off on the plate.

“Hello Cole,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“Tight and terrible, twisting into the worst parts of me when they pull. I can’t,” he gasped, looked at Solas with wide, fearful eyes. “I don’t want to.”

Solas and Lavellan shared a look, before he frowned.

“Is everything alright, Cole?” Solas asked.

“N _o_!” he cried. “I help, it’s who I am. But they can take it. Blocked, bleeding, walls around what I want. Make me monstrous. But you! You can help it! Stop it! Stop me! Bind me!”

Solas stilled. Lavellan felt the bottom drop from his stomach and oh. Oh no.

“I beg your pardon?” Solas asked.

Cole jumped off the desk and paced the rotunda, agitation laced within every frantic step. He held himself as if he were a shattered vase held together by a fraying string.

“I want you to bind me,” he told Solas. “So that they can’t get me. They can’t make me _wrong_.”

Solas’ jaw tightened and he bit out, “No.”

Cole’s expression fell and he approached Solas, hands grasping at his robes in desperation and a touch of frustration. “But you like demons!”

“I enjoy the company of spirits, yes, which is why I do not abuse them with bindings!”

“It’s not abuse if I ask.”

Solas gently extricated himself from Cole’s hold, face softening. “Not always true,” he murmured. “And I do not practice blood magic, which renders this entire conversation academical.”

Cole turned to Lavellan. “He won’t bind me!” he protested. It felt a little like a child turning to their parent after the other one told them no. Lavellan frowned in concern and stood, too awkward just sitting there and staring up at them.

“Why do you want to be bound?” he asked.

“So I’m _safe_ ,” he choked out and returned to his furious pacing and muttering. “If he won’t then someone else can! Will! A Grey Warden mage and then… No twisting, no pulling. Me. Only me, and not what I shouldn’t be.”

“Cole,” Lavellan said softly, approached him with care. “A blood mage can bind anybody. Spirit or human.”

“Then you should ask Solas to bind you! And then someone can bind him!” Lavellan froze at that, felt a gashing crawl of discomfort and utter _rejection_ of that notion, and he wasn’t sure which part of Cole’s suggestion disagreed with him the most. Solas stood beside Lavellan. His presence relieved the discomfort, somewhat.

“What if binding erases your mind? Your consciousness?” Solas challenged.

Cole shook his head vehemently. “You wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people. I don’t want to do that again.”

“No,” Lavellan agreed and crossed his arms, “but there has to be a middle ground between ‘do nothing’ and ‘bind Cole with blood magic.’”

“Indeed,” said Solas and he fell quiet in thought as Lavellan and Cole looked at him. He hummed and frowned. “I recall Rivaini seers using talismans to protect spirits they summoned from rival mages. The Amulet of the Unbound would make a spirit immune to blood magic and binding.” He looked up and stared at Cole. “It should work with you as well.”

“I’m sure Josephine has contacts within Rivain,” Lavellan said. “We can dedicate a few resources to search for it.”

Cole’s shoulders bunched in his tense state. “Good,” he said darkly and walked away. “They will not take me.”

He disappeared in a curl of smoke and shadows which left Solas and Lavellan in the now uneasy quiet. Lavellan’s mouth twisted in discomfort as he gazed at the space Cole used to occupy.

“He helps everyone but who helps him?” he wondered. Solas glanced at him, then at the very spot Lavellan was staring at.

“Us,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole really went, "Daaad, dad won't bind me with blood magic!" 
> 
> Salty that you can't choose forgiveness for Ser Ruth unless you're a faithful Inquisitor. Wow, new throne though. Not quite on the same level of intimidating and size as that one Qunari bench (we all know the one), but def comes close.
> 
> (Lavellan was a bit of an ass after the Exalted Council but can anyone really blame him?)


	30. That which binds us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-care checkpoint reminder! If you've been reading for a bit, here's a reminder to walk, stretch, drink water, eat food, or sleep if you're able :)

_that which holds me―_

* * *

“Sneak them in,” he told Leliana upon the commencement of the War Council. “I also have a letter for my Keeper.” She nodded as she took it. He turned to Josephine. “Do you have any contacts in Rivain?”

“Yes,” she said. “What for?”

“The binding of demons at Adamant had shaken Cole,” he said. “He wishes to be bound to Solas in the hopes of preventing that, but… that’s not exactly ideal. For Solas or him. Solas spoke of an Amulet of the Unbound that Rivaini seers used to protect spirits from rival mages. I thought we could perhaps obtain one?”

She looked down at her board and made a note. “I will look into it, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you. So then, how goes our progress with Halamshiral?”

The three advisors stared at one another.

“What?” he asked.

“We have been approached,” said Leliana. “And if we were to accept, we would have our guarantee into the Grand Masquerade.”

He eyed them. “But?”

“You’ve, ah, been vocal during your lessons with me,” said Josephine carefully, “about your… predisposition towards Grand Duke Gaspard.”

“That he’s a bigoted, racist, warmonger?” he said dryly.

Cullen coughed into his hand.

“That,” said Josephine. “Our invitation is from him. Will that be a problem?”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Lady Ambassador, I may dislike him, but I am not about to turn this opportunity down.”

“Please do not repeat what you have said to me to him,” she said.

“That would depend on his behaviour.”

“ _Inquisitor_.”

“I’m joking.” Partly. “I’m an idiot, not socially suicidal.”

Lavellan gazed at the pins scattered on the map. Their influence. Growth in power and reach. The Inquisition was everywhere as a sharp steel, as a whispered shadow, as a silver tongue, and something blossomed in his chest. Something almost pleased. Look at the change and waves they made, how one tip of their hand upended a shore, how a secret smile spilled the blood of the stars.

“We’re doing well,” he said out of the blue. “Look at this. We’re all over the map. Like Maker-damned pests.”

“Very efficient pests,” said Leliana with a faint smile.

“Very skilled pests,” said Josephine.

“Maker, you’re all impossible. I am outnumbered in this room,” sighed Cullen.

Lavellan felt his gaze return to the Dales. When he looked up to continue their discussion, it was to Leliana’s astute gaze pinning him.

“Is there a reason you keep looking at the Dales?” she asked.

He gave her a wry smile. “I _am_ Dalish.”

She raised a brow. He sighed and leaned on the table.

“It’s where the civil war has been raging, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’m just wondering about its state since the peace talks have been scheduled.”

Leliana stared at him for a long moment, before she held her hands behind her back. “About that,” she said. “The Imperial Army forces have been silent ever since they withdrew to await the outcomes of the peace talk. What this bodes, I do not yet know.”

“We can march soldiers into the Exalted Plains,” suggested Cullen, brows drawn. Lavellan noted how sickly his pallor was. “Position scouts in strategic areas. Lines of communication are down so we need to be prepared for anything.”

There it was ― his opening to the Dales.

He wasn’t sure if he was up to seeing the razed battlefield once again, but he needed answers. There was a Dalish clan there too, was there not? Part of him ― okay, most of him ― was getting ridiculously homesick, and he just… wanted to see the aravel sails again. The halla and the hunting and the simpler, albeit tough life. Well, tough in a different way to his job as Inquisitor.

Honestly, this whole Inquisition gig was more of a garbage pile on fire.

He meant that lovingly.

* * *

That afternoon, Cullen finally confided in him about his lyrium withdrawal. They sat in Cullen’s office, passed stories until dusk, and if any tears were shed, it was nobody else’s business.

* * *

The wooden carvings Lavellan finished for his companions sat arrayed on his bed. He twisted his lips, shuffled his feet and scratched the back of his head and paced and made an indecisive noise. Would they like it? Maybe they wouldn’t like the animal Lavellan chose for them? What if it looked bad? What if they accept it out of politeness but secretly hate it?

_Oh just give it to them!_

Lavellan grumbled and swept them into a sack with care. Now or never. So then, who first?

Not even a question. The one who began the Inquisition. The one who stayed beside him from the beginning to the very end.

The very end.

He descended the Keep and entered the armoury where Cassandra usually spent her mornings, the smell of sword oil and metal heavy in the air. The workers greeted him as he passed and Lavellan spent a moment admiring the line of daggers before he ascended to the highest floor where a lone table rested by a window overlooking the front bailey.

There Cassandra was. And, surprisingly, Varric.

“That is not what happened,” huffed Cassandra.

“Well, it kind of did.” said Varric.

“Like when the Iron Bull ripped his shirt off to intimidate the Nightmare? Never mind that he does not wear shirts?”

“Artistic license.”

Cassandra scowled further, scratching away at the parchment. “This is supposed to be an account, Varric. A fragment of history, so that rumours are not spread.”

“A finished draft is only half the story, Seeker. It’s the rumours that make it whole.”

Lavellan’s gaze softened at the sight. They reconciled somewhat, it seemed.

_Varric stole glances at Cassandra as she passed, his pen stilling over the parchment, and the ink would blot over his written words but he never seemed to mind. He would stare at the blot, shrug, and say, “You’re right, that’s not it.” Then he began anew. Lavellan wasn’t sure what warranted such a prolific consumption of parchment. For the weeks they stayed at Lavellan’s estate in Kirkwall, Varric agonised over his work. Spent more time there than his own estate and often ignored the paperwork required of the Viscount in favour of whatever magnum opus he seemed to be in the middle of composing, to the chagrin of his seneschal._

_And then…_

_And then._

_He left it on the bench where Cassandra usually read her books, the parchment wrapped around a handpicked bundle of her favourite flowers._

_And_ click _went Lavellan’s brain._

_Oh._

_Oh!_

“Ugh,” groaned Cassandra and muttered at her work. “Written like a blithering child.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” said Varric, faint smile in his voice.

“Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m not. Here, it’s a bit choppy though. You don’t have to make them too long or cram so many ideas together. You’ve got all this space, Seeker. No rush.”

She huffed again but it was less frustrated. “I cannot put into words the visions of the Fade. It was so….”

“Green,” agreed Varric.

Lavellan was content to stay quiet and listen in on their quiet conversation but Varric looked up and his expression brightened.

“Inquisitor!” he greeted. “What brings you here?”

“Looking for you both. What’re you two up to?”

Cassandra sighed and put the quill down. “One day, historians will ask what happened at Adamant, in the Fade. I was there. I have a responsibility to provide an account so that nobody twists our legacy and our efforts.” She sent Varric a disgruntled look. “I asked Varric for help since writing does not come naturally for me.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” said Varric with a theatrical bow.

Lavellan’s lips twitched, observed the two of them, and never in his life would he have expected them to get together in his past life. Timeline. Should he start calling it a timeline instead of life? Anyway, he supposed he could see it.

Right now, Varric still loved the namesake of his crossbow.

“So Inquisitorialness,” said Varric. “What’s in the mysterious looking sack?”

“Oh.” Lavellan held it close to his chest, shuffled his feet. “They’re presents that I made. For a few people. Including, uh. You two.”

Cassandra smiled. “Truly?” she asked. “That is very thoughtful of you, thank you.”

“You know, Glowy, you’re starting to make me double think about how I wrote you in my book.”

He frowned. “Why? How did you write me?”

“A jaded, burdened elf who sets himself on fire and champions the people with a hidden agenda.”

“It’s not wrong.”

“No, no, I’m changing it. The Inquisitor liked to appear scary but really, he’s just a sap at heart.”

“Do you want your damn present or not?”

Varric chuckled and raised his arms in surrender. Lavellan shook his head with a smile and gingerly picked up Varric’s piece, hesitated, before he pulled it out completely and presented it. A soft breath escaped Varric as he took and examined it with wide and wondered eyes.

“You told me to indulge in my hobbies so, uh, yeah. There you go.” Inquisitor Lavellan, the man who publicly exposed Grand Duchess Florianne through words alone and learned the silver-tongued ways from Josephine Montilyet herself, was stumbling over his sentences.

“You _made_ this?” Varric asked, pitch rising in disbelief. “Carved it by _hand_ and everything?”

“Sometimes I did it by foot.”

“Very funny, Inquisitor.”

It was a fox mid-trot with a mischievous expression as it carried a quill in its mouth, carved from cherry wood which gave it that wonderful deep red stain. The entire piece was just under the size of his palms, dangling from the braided strings looped around the small ring Lavellan carved over its back.

“Shit, you even carved the fur?” he breathed. “How long did this take?”

“I don’t remember, but all in all, I finished everyone’s in two months.” He turned to Cassandra and gave her the bear. The wood was lighter in colour, a Great Bear walking, the vague shape of the all-seeing eye and the Chantry sunrays arching around and over it. The braided string wrapped around the middle space between two sun rays. This one was almost as large as his hand. Mostly due to the sun.

She took it as if he bestowed upon her a babe.

“Inquisitor, I― This is― This is wonderful.” She looked up, smile growing. “I will cherish this.”

“Do you two… like it?” he asked them

“Like it?” asked Varric. “Glowy, I think I’m going to cry. You _made_ this. For us. Even after we made you run naked on the battlements a few days ago after that game of Wicked Grace.”

Lavellan snorted a laugh and pulled a face at the memory. He lost against Solas. Enough said. “Maybe they’re secretly tiny bombs.”

“Tiny bombs of love. Look at this, Seeker! He’s got the expression down and everything!”

“It does look like you,” she agreed.

A too-clever fox for too-clever Varric. Always up to something, always something witty on his mind, but foxes were excellent parents and Varric always had that parental air around him as he urged Lavellan to take care of himself. Subtly did it himself if Lavellan was being stubborn about it. Like that to Cole too.

A bear for Cassandra. Strong, formidable, protective of its young, and they both defended with everything they had. Steadfast, stubborn, shook the battlefield whenever she roared her cry. The sun and the all-seeing eye to symbolise her faith in the Maker and devotion to her Order.

“You really like them?” he asked again.

“Inquisitor, I am going to carry it with me at all times,” said Varric and fiddled with the braided string. “It’s what this is for, right?”

He smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

Cassandra ran gentle fingers over the arch of the eye. “I meant it, Inquisitor,” she murmured, eyes glimmering. “I will forever cherish this.”

Lavellan glowed in his relief and pride.

* * *

His raven joined him halfway through his search for Bull. He smiled at her.

“Hello love,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

She cawed and nuzzled into his jaw.

“Well I’m giving some of my friends presents,” he said. “I’m looking for the Iron Bull but I can’t seem to find him.”

“Bull,” she cawed and took flight. “Bull, Bull!”

“You know where he is?”

“Know where he is,” she repeated. Lavellan raised a brow and decided to test it.

“Alright, lead the way.”

Did she really understand? At this point, he should stop questioning it since she’d proved her intelligence thrice over.

He followed her to the rear bailey, and it still felt as if he stepped into another world because of the stark difference in architecture. Still, the builders restored the area wonderfully. There was some work left, but most of the apartments stood ready to receive numerous inhabitants. The Templars and Mages were kept in separate buildings because both groups kicked up a mighty fuss about being so close to each other and Lavellan swept in with the suggestion before Cassandra and Vivienne kicked them both out into the snow.

Besides the residential areas, it was where the brewery and greater kitchen were situated along with a few merchant stalls, and the sound of construction still raged. Lavellan hadn’t had time to come down and help lately. Not that he could, much. They always waved him off or grew frightened because they took his presence to mean displeasure in their work.

He spotted Grand Enchanter Fiona in the small garden sitting with a group of children and young adolescents, book open on her lap. Teaching, perhaps?

“Bull!” Lavellan’s raven crowed. Good gods, she needed a name. Why was he so terrible at naming?

Surely enough, Bull was by the greater kitchen, chatting to a few workers with sacks of flour heaped over his shoulders. He offloaded them and parted with a cheery wave goodbye. His gaze fell on Lavellan and he grinned.

“Mercy!” he greeted. “Morning.”

“Morning, Bull.” His raven returned to his shoulders and puffed her feathers as if to say, _I told you so_.

“Mayhem,” Bull said and nodded at the crow.

“Bull!” she said.

Mayhem. Elegant mayhem, Leliana had said.

The idea struck him.

Elegant mayhem. What was that in Elvish? _Galanor veredhe_. Verenor? No, not quite… Galaver? No still not―

 _Vergala_.

The name settled in his head, a drop of water falling into the calm sea, and his eyes brightened.

He exclaimed out of the blue and startled Bull. Lavellan grabbed his raven off his shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Vergala!” he rejoiced. “Your name is Vergala!” He hugged her and she squawked but didn’t struggle. “Vergala! It sounds right! Vergala!”

“Vergala!” she repeated and he had no idea if ravens could sound pleased, but she definitely looked it. When he let her go, she perched on his shoulders again, puffed her chest out and cawed, “Vergala. Lavellan. My name.”

“That’s right, clever girl. That’s your name.”

“Clever Vergala.” She took off and flew in circles over him. “Lavellan!”

He cackled in glee and spun with her, and only returned to present when the wooden carvings hit one another in the sack. Lavellan stopped. Bull watched him with a smile one wore when confronted by the sight of a dog chasing its tail. He recomposed himself, cleared his throat. A few passers-by shot him amused glances and even Vergala seemed embarrassed since she returned to his shoulder with a more subdued caw.

“So, finally named her?” asked Bull.

“Ah, yeah, just then. Listen, never tell anybody I did that.”

“Did what?”

“Good.” Lavellan laughed breathlessly. “I was looking for you, actually. I… made a present for my friends and, well―” He dug into the sack before he lost his words again and took out Bull’s carving. “I made this. I hope you like it. Belated Satinalia?”

Bull’s eye lit up like a pyromaniac child who made something explode for the first time.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled as he gratefully accepted it. Bull was easy. Lavellan knew what to do for him immediately. “It’s a fucking dragon! Mercy, you’re the best. It’s got my horns!”

It was indeed a dragon, but Lavellan shaped its horns to resemble Bull’s. The Iron Dragon. Dragon Bull? Lavellan grinned and shuffled in slight embarrassment as Bull waved it around and yelled, “It’s a tiny fucking dragon!” for all of the rear bailey to hear. Fiona shot him a disgruntled look as the children stared wide-eyed.

“Best. Inquisitor. Ever!”

* * *

He ran into Blackwall and Josephine chatting on the battlements. Lavellan cleared his throat. Blackwall startled and Josephine moved to hide something behind her back as they stared at him.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine squeaked. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here!”

Lavellan’s lips quirked. “I _do_ live here.”

“Yes, that is to say, here. Specifically. Atop the battlements.”

Blackwall stayed quiet, face reddening, looking like someone sprinted past and pulled his pants down. Lavellan laughed.

“Creators, you two look like I’ve caught you in the middle of sex, calm down.”

“Inquisitor!” Josephine admonished.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve a little something for you both. Made them in my spare time.”

That caught their attention. Lavellan picked out Josephine’s and gave it to her. She gasped and accepted it with cupped palms, turning it over in her hands. (Lavellan squinted. What did she hide behind her back and where did it go?) He carved an elephant for her. Gentle, majestic creatures native to Par Vollen, known for their intelligence and compassion. He explained as much. She traced her fingers over the wrinkles in the skin, the cheerful expression on its face as it raised its trunk high in celebration.

“Inquisitor, this is beautiful,” she breathed. “Such craftsmanship!”

He smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” Turned to Blackwall and picked his out. “I considered giving you a griffon because Grey Warden but you know what?” He placed the phoenix in Blackwall’s hand. “Being a Warden is not what defines you. You are defined by your actions, and whatever happened in your past, whatever mistakes you’ve made, you want to move forward and make the world a better place. That is what I admire about you, Blackwall. And so, a phoenix. Symbolic of rebirth in Rivaini legends.”

His piece was somewhat flat, the flames from its tails and wings extending and connecting to form a ring of fire. Blackwall looked up at him, eyes fogging with unshed tears and his mouth twisted as he struggled for his words.

“I don’t deserve this,” was what he ended up saying.

“Blackwall, this isn’t about deserving. You earned this. Earned my respect. The actions you’ve done, the help you’ve given, the resilience and courage you’ve shown?” He smiled. “Consider it a reminder. I believe you are a better man than you give yourself credit for.”

He shook his head. “Inquisitor, I― I am not worthy of your respect.”

Lavellan watched him, his head bent down, shoulders hunched under the weight of his sins.

“Look up,” he ordered.

Blackwall tilted his head up. Lavellan softened his tone and expression.

“Stand tall.”

It took him a while, but he did so and pulled his shoulders back, chin up. Lavellan nodded with a smile.

“There. Maybe you’re not a good man, Blackwall, hell I’m hardly one,” he said, momentarily lapsing back into the memories of fire and wrath and apathy and playing with lives. Blackwall opened his mouth to argue but Lavellan shook his head emphatically. “But all we can do is try. Try to be better than we were. Try to own up to our mistakes and learn and atone but never wallow to the point of inaction. Anytime you waver or question yourself, use that as a reminder.” He grinned. “Sometimes all a person needs is someone who believes in them. And we believe in you.”

Josephine clutched the small elephant close to her chest and laid a gentle hand on Blackwall’s shoulders, gave him an encouraging nod and a soft smile. Blackwall smiled back. Looked at Lavellan with a thousand words unsaid swimming in his teary eyes.

“Thank you, Inquisitor. I will always remember your words. And no matter what you say, I believe you are a good man.”

His eyes saddened. “Thank you.”

* * *

He ducked into the tavern and swung by Sera’s little alcove and bay window. All her knickknacks decorated the place, incongruous and yet so colourful and wild and very Sera.

“Ser Lordybloomers,” she greeted, imitated a pompous voice, before she smiled. “Good seeing you, yeah? What’s up?”

“Wanted to give you something. Made it for you.”

She perked. “Oh yeah? Can I throw it at people? Got a few nobs who needs a good pie to the face. That, or bees.”

“Close enough to bees but try not to throw it at anything.” Lavellan revealed the wooden carving. A flat hexagon with its surface carved to look like a honeycomb while a bee rested on it. On the edge of the hexagon was a wasp. He dangled it in front of her and she gasped, squealed and grabbed it.

“Honey and stingy!” she exclaimed and giggled.

“Just like you,” he agreed.

“Aww, look at you. Try to be all tough and mean but you got a pushy belly.”

“Pushy belly.”

“All soft and squishy.” She hopped off her window-sill seat and dug around her hoard, pulling out her quiver so she could wrap the string around it. Sera patted it with a smile. “Never gotten a hand-made gift before,” she admitted. “Thanks Quizzy.”

“Really?”

“Well, no, some sniffy kid gave me a painted box and got snot all over it. I never got a _nice_ hand-made gift before. You’re golden. Hey, you up for a round of pranks?”

Lavellan paused, considered, then asked, “Pies?”

Sera cackled. “Pies!”

* * *

It was noon by the time he and Sera stopped throwing pies at people ― not that anyone knew it was them ― and Lavellan cleaned himself up before he went out on his search once more. Vergala flew off during the pie-throwing to get out of range.

He found Cullen and Leliana in the garden playing chess.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Cullen told Leliana.

“Such accusations, Commander,” she replied.

Lavellan made to move towards them, but for a dizzying second, his vision pulsed. Skyhold garden shifted, overlaid with the ancient garden of Tarasylan and the taste of magic lingered on his lips, sweet lightning, honeyed metal, and he clutched his head and it was gone. He blinked, dazed. Everything was as it was: his progressing herb garden, the asters, the winterbells, paths made of stone and not golden tiles.

What the hell?

“Inquisitor,” greeted Cullen and gestured him over which snapped him out of it.

“How goes the game?” he asked once he neared to distract himself.

Cullen reclined like a cat who succeeded in pushing everything off any available surface. “I won, despite her cheating.”

“I did no such thing,” Leliana said and stood. “Be careful, Commander. I am _very_ good at exacting revenge.”

“Like when you moved your knight to F5?” he taunted.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Wait, before you go,” said Lavellan and opened the sack. “I’ve made something for you two. As a thank-you present of sorts.”

He took out the nightingale carving and gave it to Leliana. The wood was dark, and the nightingale was mid-flight, an arrow clutched in one of its feet, laurel leaves clutched in the other.

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes glittering. “This is magnificent. You made this?”

Lavellan nodded with a smile. “A nightingale for our nightingale. She clutches an arrow in one hand, swift with her judgement and skill. And the other…”

“Laurel leaves. Symbols of peace.” She looked up at him, smiled wryly. “Are you trying to tell me something, Inquisitor?”

“Just a reminder,” he said, didn’t elaborate because he knew she understood. He turned to Cullen who watched the exchange with a small smile and startled when Lavellan presented him with the lion. Not the lions of Orlais. The Valmont lions were poised, regal, clean-cut. No, his lion was a fighter, proud and fierce, its mane reminiscent of the mantle of fur over Cullen’s shoulder, a broken chain in its mouth to signify Cullen breaking away from lyrium.

“Maker, is that why you’ve been staring at the fur around my shoulders?” Cullen asked and laughed gently, gaze soft as he traced over the broken chain. “How did you―?”

“With a lot of wrist aches,” said Lavellan. “But it was worth it. I know the lion is an Orlesian symbol, but, I mean, it’s native to East Thedas.”

“I don’t know how you did it, but it doesn’t… It’s not like that at all.”

“It screams Fereldan, somehow,” said Leliana in mild surprise.

“I’m bringing it to that cursed masquerade,” Cullen declared.

The three of them shared a laugh.

* * *

“I hear you’ve been giving gifts!” Dorian chirped when Lavellan swung by the library, but he entered through the door and not through the rotunda. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to leave Solas for last. Speaking of, there was Solas, high on his scaffolding as he worked on the fresco, kneeling so he wouldn’t hit his head on the library’s railings. All the way across the room though.

Dorian cleared his throat, smile teasing. “At least make the effort to hide that you’re looking.”

Lavellan sighed and ignored the comment. “Yes, I’ve been giving gifts. I couldn’t quite finish them in time for Satinalia so they’re a little late.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be the one giving _you_ presents?” Dorian asked. “You’re off running around and checking on your little ducklings. You should be resting, being hand-fed grapes, surrounded by a platter of the finest cheese with a glass of wine in your hand.”

He snorted and laughed at the mental image. “Are you volunteering to hand-feed me grapes?”

“I would, if I didn’t suspect you’d try to bite my finger off.”

“Now what makes you say that?” He took out Dorian’s piece. Dorian’s joking expression vanished, replaced by something almost hesitant.

“Wait, you were serious?” he asked.

Lavellan frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re my friend, Dorian.” A good friend. Dorian who pushed on despite the prolonged lack of sleep, pale and weak and reduced to a gaunt version of himself. Barely any muscle, cheeks sunken, halfway to death, unable to concentrate for long, and yet he yelled at Solas on Lavellan’s behalf, fought beside him even if his reactions were slowed, even if he struggled, even if his mana stores were low because of his constant use of magic to sustain himself. He did so damn well.

In the end, he collapsed. Used what mana he could give to deflect a magical spell from the opposition which saved so many soldiers. Including Lavellan.

_“Hush Dorian. Rest now,” he whispered. There was no waiting in war, in battle, but Lavellan would make the world wait. He clutched Dorian’s thin hands. “You did well. You did good. Thank you so much, you don’t know how much―” Lavellan’s breaths caught and he choked on his repressed sobs._

_Dorian patted his hand with a brittle smile. “You are my dearest friend, Mahanon, but don’t follow me just yet, yes?”_

He placed the ouroboros in Dorian’s hand.

“How ominous,” Dorian said, tried to be teasing, but his voice cracked and softened.

“The snake is a symbol of Tevinter, but a snake eating its own self is a cycle of birth and death.” He placed his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “You who loves your homeland so much, and because you love it, you want to change it. It’s not going to be easy. You’ll be met with so much opposition, but whenever you falter, I hope this reminds you to keep fighting. Tevinter can change.” He offered him a smile. “Starting with you.”

Dorian let out a shaky laugh. “Maker, you’ll make me cry. This is… a very thoughtful present. I didn’t think I would make any friends here, but you— Well, in any case, thank you.”

Lavellan’s heart soared. So far, the reactions he had gotten were sincere and he didn’t sense a single forced politeness. Well, then again, he had yet to see Vivienne and give hers. There was Cole too. And then Solas.

“Alright, I have a few more to go,” said Lavellan and grinned. “I’ll see you around, alright?”

He nodded, clutched the ouroboros and held it close to him.

* * *

Vivienne was on her lounge on the balcony overlooking the Hall. She looked up from her book and closed it upon his approach, put it aside.

“Hello darling,” she said. “May I help you?”

He nodded at her with a careful smile. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” She patted the space next to her and he sat.

For Vivienne, he wasn’t sure if she would appreciate handcrafted items, but Lavellan knew she adored ornamented belongings so this was the most detailed of his pieces. He picked hers out.

“I made it as a present. To show my appreciation for all the help and assistance you’ve given.”

Her brows raised. As if the concept were foreign to her. He wasn’t sure which part of his sentence was the foreign concept.

The carved swan was all sweeping curves and sharp angles, each feather on its spread wings carved with painstaking detail. It was a graceful animal. Beautiful, but should be admired from afar because it could get vicious and aggressive when angered or disturbed, and at his explanation, Vivienne smiled in delight, eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Such detail,” she praised. “You have a gift, darling. Wonderfully cultivated and executed, and I may know nothing about wood carving, but the precision and delicacy is commendable.”

“I, ah, enjoy detail work. Yours is probably the most detailed of the set.”

She raised a brow. “Is that so? How come?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you, I suppose.”

Vivienne sighed and cupped his cheek with her hand. “Oh darling, I could never be disappointed with a well-thought-out present. Your care is apparent in the work. You could sell what you make. It would certainly earn a fortune.”

“In the future, maybe,” he said, recalled the times he sold his carvings whenever their Clan traded with the human settlements. _Dalish_ crafts earned much. Exotic, they said. Lavellan scoffed then but money was money. Besides, better for them to be legitimate crafts than weak imitations which trod on their culture.

“Let me know if you’re in any way unhappy with it and I’ll make a new one. Or not, if you don’t―”

“Inquisitor,” she interrupted, gentle yet firm, “if I were displeased, you certainly would have known. Take pride in your work, darling. As I said before, humility does not befit you. Your craft is your heart, your innermost person.”

She tipped his chin up with her finger.

“Bare yourself and brandish it as your strength.”

* * *

Cole was harder to track down. It was no use asking either because nobody remembered Cole for long enough save for his inner circle. Not that they’ve seen him either.

Would Cole even like what Lavellan made?

Lavellan found himself checking down in the cells as a last resort, and almost tripped when he indeed found Cole there, sitting on the edge where stones fell into the snow. The bowels of Skyhold. Damaged from the creation of the Veil.

“He couldn’t walk far,” said Cole. “So much taken from him, so much he gave. The future will be better now.” He bowed his head, shook it. “Then it wasn’t. Roared in his despair and his hurt covered the stones and they remember it. It’s still here, his screams. Do you hear it?”

And Lavellan could, for a second. No, not even. Half of a second, but he was unsure whether he imagined it or not.

“I don’t think so. Maybe. I’m not sure,” he said and sat beside Cole. “How are you feeling, Cole?”

He fiddled with his sleeves, pulled over his fingers. “I’ll be better when I can’t hurt anyone. When nobody can make me hurt anyone. You’ll kill me if I do, right? Promise you’ll kill me.”

Lavellan gave him a grave stare. “I won’t let it come to that first, but if all else fails… I will.”

Cole closed his eyes, bowed his head, shoulders relaxing.

“Thank you,” he said.

“That’s the last resort of the last resorts though,” said Lavellan with a weak laugh. “In any case, I have something for you.”

He tilted his head at Lavellan. “Shaking fingers, painful wrists, can’t hold the daggers right the next morning. I hope they like it. Don’t want to lose myself again.” Cole blinked up at him. “That’s how you bind yourself,” he said as if he came across a wondrous revelation. “You don’t need magic because you have them and you know they’ll bring you back.”

Lavellan lowered his gaze. Understood Cole and his wishes to not lose himself, to remain as he was, to not hurt others, to not achieve what they sought by damaging those around them.

“Blood always in your mouth and embers flying free in your fury. Your words lace with poison. Trapped in the stillness so you change it yourself but when you do it, it’s chaos and you like it, liked it, _what if I become like that again_?” Cole shook his head. “No, you won’t. I won’t let you, just like you won’t let me. You were hurt, twisted, turned into something that terrified you. I won’t let it happen.”

His mouth dried. “Thank you, Cole,” he whispered. Gripped the sack tight in his hands before he loosened his grip and gingerly took out the carved rabbit, a sprig of mint in its mouth, a turnip beneath a paw. Cole wrapped his hands around it, cradled it. Traced the edges with slow, gentle fingers, glacial eyes wide beneath the curtain of blonde hair.

“I heard about the things you were up to around Skyhold.” He smiled. “I particularly liked these two. When you used the mint to make the cat play and cheer the cook up and stop the kitchen hands from being yelled at. When you threw the turnips into the fire to let the dying soldier know he was home. Also, you said you liked rabbits when we played Wicked Grace the other day.” He returned to fiddling with the sack. “Thank you, Cole. Truly. I’m more at ease knowing you’re around to help the others with little things. I’m greatly limited by my position so I can’t help as extensively as I’d like. So, thank you.”

Cole hugged it close to his chest. “I’m happy,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d like it. Or want to keep it. If you don’t, you can say so. I understand.”

He frowned at Lavellan as if he just asked how to duplicate the moon and shrink it. “Keeping it will make you happy.”

“But will it make you happy?”

“I’m happy when you’re happy,” he said and Lavellan couldn’t stop a soft _aw_ from escaping him. Cole stared at the rabbit, ran his fingers over its back. “I didn’t understand why people give other people things but now I do. You’re in here. You give pieces of yourself and you chose to give it to me. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you again.”

“It’s fine,” he said before he could think of it. It seemed that was the default response nowadays.

He shook his head vehemently. “It’s not! I tangled you too. Threads catching on the cracked edges of cold sorrow and anger. And now it’s holding you together. I can’t take it all anymore. You’ll fall.”

“That sounds unhealthy,” Lavellan said with an amused snort.

“It goes further. Pass the forest into the river into the ocean into the deep.” His gaze glazed. “Memory made it dawn so you see that there’s an ocean.”

“What is with the water metaphors?” Lavellan mumbled to himself.

Cole stared at him. “It was water,” he said ominously. “The water saved you when the shadows damned you. The water loved you. Fire loved you too. Then fire became lightning but you made it fire again. For a while.”

“Cole, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He stood. “You will.”

Lavellan blinked and Cole vanished in fading coils of smoke.

* * *

Solas was nowhere to be found. He was gone from the rotunda, his fresco finished.

“He left a while ago,” Dorian called out lazily over the book in his hands.

“Where to?”

“Have you tried your quarters?”

“Very funny.”

Lavellan visited Solas’ usual haunts, but nobody had seen him.

“How hard is it to find an elf with a literal shining beacon for a head?” he muttered to himself as he stomped across Skyhold’s grounds. Vergala flew off to Creators knew where too so he couldn’t ask her to lead him to Solas, if she even knew where he was.

His search was disrupted when he was called to settle an emergency involving a three-way dispute between an Orlesian, Fereldan, and Antivan ambassador. Which took longer than it really should have considering they were arguing about who had the _better way of governing_ and Lavellan had to stand there trying to find a single thing he liked about their methods of ruling. Thank the gods for Josephine.

And then Bianca Davri arrived and Varric looked as if somebody stabbed him in the groin.

They spoke and arranged to visit Valammar in a few days and Lavellan pursed his lips, knew Bianca’s actions led to Corypheus finding the red lyrium. Still, blaming games never did anybody any good. Besides, either Corypheus would have found out about red lyrium from another source or he would have found something worse.

Bianca would stay the night but no longer. Varric seemed just fine with that.

When she left to find her room, Lavellan cleared his throat.

“Varric, no matter how light, your arm will get sore if you hold up a torch for long enough.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got some more papers to write. I’ll see you around, Inquisitor.” He turned though his voice softened when he said, “Thanks again for the present.”

Lavellan watched him go, lips pursed in worry. He peered into the rotunda again but it was still empty and he grumbled.

More matters required his attention and by the time he finished with his required tasks, it was late into the evening, and he was still no closer to finding Solas.

Skyhold was too big to search entirely. Lavellan rubbed his face. He retreated to his quarters and grabbed paper from his desk, scratched his letter into it, and stood outside his balcony, searching the skies for Vergala. She never strayed far from Skyhold after all. He was just about to whistle for her when she came into view and he grinned as he held his arm up. She descended upon it with a cawed greeting.

“There you are,” he said. “Good timing.”

“Lavellan.”

“Do you know where Solas is?”

She tilted her head at him, blinked. “Know where he is,” she said.

Lavellan was far too exhausted to make a trek across Skyhold again, wherever that damned wolf was, so he held up the rolled letter. Tied with a halla leather cord.

“Can you give this to him?”

She took it in her claws before she flew off.

Lavellan rubbed and massaged his nape with a small sigh, stared at the sack he dropped on his bed. He walked towards it and took out the three wolves. Unlike the others who had braided strings, Solas’ had simple strings, better suited to being knotted, and the wolves were hollowed a certain way so that they made different notes when they hit one another. Nothing too drastic. Dagna helped a lot with it. He held the wolves by the string and swayed them, smiled at the relaxing tones they made. At this point, it was needless since Lavellan didn’t startle around Solas anymore but some part of him liked that it became a little thing between them.

Well, time to get out of this uniform. He tucked the wolves into the bedside drawer so he could at least surprise Solas with them.

_You could have just given it to him tomorrow. Why did you invite him here?_

Lavellan shut the drawers harsher than he intended.

He changed into a loose tunic, Skyhold’s winter chill unable to touch him because the room had been recently inlaid with various runes which let it retain heat. He tackled the paperwork left at his desk. Servants already came earlier and lit the fireplace.

So preoccupied was he that the knock at the door startled him. He couldn’t be sure how much time passed. Lavellan rubbed his eyes and stood, took a quick glance out the doors to determine the time but the sky was overcast and hid the stars and moon. It would snow soon. He could feel it.

He closed the balcony doors before making his way down to his quarter’s door.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“It’s Solas, Inquisitor.” There was a squawk. “And your raven.”

Ah, he got the letter. Lavellan unlocked the door, and for a short, awkward moment, they both stood there, uncertain of what to do. Vergala transferred from Solas to Lavellan’s shoulders. That broke the tentative air between them.

Solas held Lavellan’s letter in hand. “Come to my quarters,” he read out, faint smile on his lips. “With no explanations. I suspected I may have either been in trouble or you had need of me.”

“More in need of you but not quite. Maybe.” He rubbed his eyes again. “Apologies. Today has been trying. Sorry, I’m just making you stand there. Come in.”

Vergala flew and rested on the upper walkway’s railings. Meanwhile, Solas perched himself on the couch while Lavellan fixed the papers on his desk, returned books piled on his nightstand back to their shelves, all while feeling Solas’ gaze follow him. He filled the silence with stories about today’s mishaps. The ambassadors, Bianca and Varric, the dinner with Val Firmin’s dignitaries. Solas answered politely when addressed.

And Lavellan was procrastinating.

When there were no more books to be returned, no more papers to be sorted, he crouched in front of the fireplace and tended to the flames. Added more wood.

The fire roared to life in front of him and he startled, glanced over his shoulder at Solas who lowered his hand, the last of his magic’s green light fading.

“Thank you,” Lavellan said, voice dry from either being near the flames and smoke or something else.

“What matter did you wish to discuss?” he asked, eyes glinting from the firelight.

“Not quite a discussion I was after. Maybe.” Lavellan cringed internally at his awkwardness and stood, moved towards his nightstand. “I’ve been distributing presents today.”

“So I heard.” His gaze traced Lavellan’s every move.

“I’m sorry for leaving you for last.” He shot Solas a cheeky grin. “I hope you didn’t feel left out.”

Solas looked away.

Lavellan grinned wider. “You did. Creators, is that why I couldn’t find you? Were you sulking?”

“No, I was taking a walk. Exploring Skyhold and its many secrets.”

_You already know it, you toad._

“Solas, I wouldn’t forget you,” he said, teasing gone from his voice, replaced by either fondness or melancholy. Lavellan was unsure which it was. He opened the drawer and retrieved the wolves wrapped in their cloth and held it close. Solas stood when Lavellan approached. “Yours were the first I carved.”

He stopped in front of Solas. Presented the gift and unwrapped the cloth with care, revealing the three wolves.

Solas’ eyes widened, breath caught, and he carefully swept them up in his hands.

“They were meant to replace the wooden blocks you placed on your staff. I… Well, I thought if people were going to stare at you strange for having blocks on your staff because of me, I may as well make them look pretty. Try holding them by the strings and sway them gently.”

He frowned in question at Lavellan but did so. They clunked pleasantly.

“Oh,” Solas whispered.

“I carved one at first but it looked lonely so I gave it friends.” Lavellan tucked his hands behind his back and wrung the cloth, watched Solas, couldn’t read him. “A wolf needs a pack.”

“Some wolves walk alone,” murmured Solas, turned the howling wolf, the one carved of dark wood. Lavellan grabbed the other two wolves and held them up beside it, their fingers brushing. The second wolf had its head tilted in curiosity. Another had its teeth bared, ready for battle.

“They don’t have to,” said Lavellan.

It was quiet between them, the silence thick with unsaid things, embellished by the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

“Why?” Solas asked. “Why do you insist on having me spend time with others?”

“Because you look lonely.”

Solas finally glanced at him. Said nothing. Merely accepted the three wolves, looked upon them with a considering and somewhat sorrowful gaze. Lavellan waited. He wasn’t sure what for.

Then, “Thank you, Mahanon.”

Lavellan’s breath escaped him at the mention of his name. Herald, Inquisitor, lethallin, da’len. _Vhenan_. Why _did_ Solas rarely use his name? But he made no mention of it, feared Solas would stop.

“Do you like them?” he asked.

“How could I not?” Solas smiled. Tentative, but it was true. “I will treasure them.”

“It’s not a requirement,” he said with a wry smile.

“Nevertheless. It is from you, and so I will cherish it.” He took a considering pause. “And think on the message within it.”

Warmth spread from Lavellan’s chest, turned him into a gentle, guiding light, and it felt as if his smile were radiant with his happiness.

“That’s all I ask,” said Lavellan.

And Solas looked upon him as if he were the warm sunlight waking the world.

Lavellan ached. Longed to reach for him, yearned to have his chest against Lavellan’s back as their hearts beat in synchrony, and _yet_. No, not this time.

Because Lavellan did not want a relationship founded on and teeming with lies.

And so, no matter how it pained him, he took a step back.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Lavellan, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t mean to send you away but… I’m tired.”

Solas stared at him for a pause before he nodded. “Of course, do not trouble yourself worrying. I understand.” He clutched the wolves close and attempted a small smile. “I will see if I can knot the wolves to my staff.”

“I’ll test you on the knot tomorrow morning,” he jested.

“Ha. Very well, Inquisitor.” Lavellan tried not to deflate at the revert to his title. “May your dreams remain pleasant this night.”

Lavellan suspected Solas would interfere and ensure it would be anyway.

“Rest well, lethallin. Once again, thank you for dedicating your time and effort into this gift.” And without further ceremony, Solas tipped his head and turned to leave. Lavellan watched him go. Words assembled in a toppling tangle behind his teeth, but the door clicked shut and the words remained on his tongue, stayed sweet even as they staled.

They dripped from his lips and dissipated in the quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something heartwarming because Lavellan loves his friends very much. With a dash of ouch at the end, as per usual. I'd draw the carvings but I realised I can't draw animals so I'm just going to imagine how cute they are and cry about it. They're cute, alright? Just take my word for it, they're cute. (Raven is _finally_ named!). This segment wasn't supposed to be a chapter on its own but I forgot there were twelve people in the goddamn inner circle so it ended up being longer than I thought it'd be.
> 
> When Cass says she wanted to record what happened during HLTA but her writing sucked, I always yell, "Get Varric to help you! Get Varric to help you! He's literally a writer, go get Varric to help--"
> 
> Anyway, Solas has small wooden windchimes on his staff now. 
> 
> Back to normal schedule! Next update on Thursday.


	31. Walk barefoot the path of thorn

_shadows winking in the luminary skies—_

* * *

Lavellan came swinging into Alexius’ lab announcing, “I have pomegranates!”

Alexius started at his table before he shot Lavellan and the fruit basket he was carrying a disdainful glance. Solas sighed behind Lavellan.

“Solas, you’ve let a few roaches inside,” said Alexius. 

“I apologise. It was a very persistent roach.”

“This roach has fruit. Who’s hungry?” he asked before he noticed the two adolescents huddled over a paper on the table. They looked up, only just noticing him.

“Your Worship,” squeaked the elven girl. She was dark-skinned with tight coils of hair held in elaborate braids, her staff strapped to her back. The other girl beside her was human, freckled and red of hair with a meek yet inquisitive gleam in her eyes. They must be the apprentices Fiona had chosen. Both couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Lavellan’s gaze softened and he toned his energy down, placed the fruit basket on a side table, and approached them with an amiable smile.

“Hello,” he greeted. “You must be the apprentices Fiona has chosen.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” said the elven girl, starstruck. “We’ve been assisting Magister Alexius―”

“Not a magister anymore,” huffed Alexius.

“Uh. Um. Ser Alexius.”

He harrumphed. “ _Ser_.”

“Have you actually told them what they can call you?” Lavellan asked. Alexius’ silence was answer enough. “There we go. Free permission to call him whatever your heart desires.”

“Oh, I don’t― I’m. Uh.”

Lavellan resisted grimacing. He was still intimidating them. Okay, dial it down even more. In the background, Solas slipped into an easy conversation with Alexius.

“What’re your names?” he asked them.

“I’m Felanor, Your Worship,” said the elven girl and she gestured at her companion. “This is Rosalie.”

Lavellan inquired about their day, what they were in the middle of doing (solving Alexius’ challenge of using only three ingredients to stabilise a volatile concoction he'd made), and learned a little of their past. Felanor had grown up in Val Royeux’s alienage, and as she spoke of the conditions, Lavellan’s frown deepened further. The alienage was far from the Summer Bazaar where one initially entered Royeax. They were hidden, tucked away like the forgotten shames of old noble houses. Over ten thousand elves had been shoved into an area that would have had trouble accommodating for even a thousand.

He’d been aware that there was an alienage at Royeaux but it was so far from where they'd usually conduct their business that he'd never wandered far. Also, he hadn't been keen on roaming the streets with his ears and tattoos blaring a glaring reminder. Now he cursed himself for not investigating further.

_But what can you do?_

Nothing. 

Yet.

And that yet lingered like a dark promise in his mind.

Rosalie held herself tight, answering with a soft voice that Lavellan had to strain to hear.

“It’s alright, Rosalie,” he assured. “If you’re not comfortable talking to me, that’s perfectly fine.”

“I, too, am uncomfortable talking to you, Inquisitor,” Alexius said from his workstation. “Will you leave then?” 

“Not until you eat your pomegranate, you geriatric sod."

Solas snorted as he wrote something into a journal. Rosalie took him up on his offer and immediately clammed up, shuffling closer to Felanor.

“We were in the Montsimmard Circle together,” Felanor explained. 

“Have you two been treated well at Skyhold?” Lavellan asked.

“Nobody’s called me knife-ear at all,” said Felanor. “It’s a nice change.”

Lavellan narrowed his eyes in consideration. “What about rabbit?”

Orlesians thought themselves so cute and clever when they referred to elves as rabbits.

No, fuck off. They’d reduced the elves to animals. Cute, little, fluffy, docile _pets_.

She shook her head. His stormy mood passed, pleased that the Inquisition had cultivated a pleasant atmosphere for the elves, though he highly suspected it was because of him. Often, people would hurriedly assure him that they had always treated elves fairly, always kind, always respectful. 

“No, nobody’s called me rabbit,” said Felanor. “I haven’t heard anyone called that too.”

Lavellan sighed in relief and turned to Rosalie. “What about you, Rosalie? Have you been treated fairly? Nobody’s hurt you here, verbally, physically, otherwise?”

Rosalie stared at him for a moment, assessed him with her gaze and Lavellan stayed quiet, met her gaze in kind with a sincere one that he hoped conveyed trust. She held herself carefully, protective, coiled tight, ready to escape if needed in a bid to continue surviving. Lavellan felt his own muscles pulled in a similar way. Eternally. Too aware of everything around them. Whatever her past was, it had not been kind.

“You made it safe,” she murmured. 

Alexius stopped writing. Solas watched them through the corner of his eyes.

“I’m glad,” Lavellan said. “In the corner tower by the rear bailey’s battlements, the one nearest to the brewery, there’s a ladder covered by a tarp. Use it to push open the hatch on the ceiling and climb to the rooftop. If you ever need a quiet place to get away to when you get overwhelmed.” He smiled and looked at Felanor. “Both of you.”

Rosalie’s eyes misted as she nodded her head.

“Okay,” she said, voice shaky. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan fixed Alexius a grave and deadly look. “Take care of them.”

“Don’t fret your head, Inquisitor. I’m no Erimond, willing to terrorise anything that moves because it grants him the attention and satisfaction he never received from his parents.”

Lavellan snorted. “You don’t like him, I take it.”

“Peh.”

“Wow, look at this, we agree on something!”

Alexius looked at Solas. “How do you put up with him?”

“How indeed?” mused Solas with a small smile. “Let him tire himself out.”

“Shut up and eat my pomegranates.”

“Is that a euphemism?” asked Solas.

“Shove this euphemism up yours.”

* * *

The day had been going so well. 

Until Mother Giselle handed him the letter from Dorian’s father and urged him _not_ to tell Dorian.

Obviously, Lavellan told him.

* * *

They returned to Skyhold two days later after meeting Dorian’s father at Redcliffe and sorting out Valammar with Bianca. Both Varric and Dorian retreated in quiet. He shared an uneasy look with Blackwall who cleared his throat and offered to return the mounts to the stables. 

Well. That went great.

Lavellan checked up on Dorian, ended up defusing an argument between him and Mother Giselle, before the arrival of a comtesse required Lavellan’s presence. He shot Dorian an apologetic look and he waved Lavellan off with a small smile.

“Oh don’t give me that look. I’ll be fine. I am a grown man who can finish an entire bottle of Golden Scythe on his own.”

Lavellan grimaced. That bad, huh?

“Don’t actually finish it. Drink it as if I were with you in spirit.”

“Don’t you fret your pretty head. I only plan to drink myself into a stupor, not death.”

“See to it that you don’t. Who else will complain about the lack of my library’s extensiveness?”

That drew a small, if tired, chuckle out of him at least. “Go on, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan left him hesitantly and went out to meet with whoever he needed to meet for the day before resuming his lessons with Josephine about the subtle code Orlesian nobles employed when gossiping. A mix of metaphors or euphemisms. He already knew them, but it never hurt to solidify his knowledge.

“Very good, Inquisitor,” she praised. “Why, I believe you may just be fluent enough for the ball.” Josephine glanced out the window and squinted at the sky. “I cannot see the sun,” she muttered. “I suspect another snowfall this evening.”

“Will that be all for today?” he asked.

“Oh! No, one moment. There is one more thing…” She moved to her table and opened a drawer, took out a small box. “It arrived this morning but you were still riding back from the Hinterlands. It is the amulet you were asking for. For Cole.”

Oh. Unease filled him. Oh no. Already?

She revealed the amulet, gleaming a deep, dark emerald, veined with blue. Lyrium. Lavellan picked it up.

It shocked his hand. He jerked his hand away on instinct. The amulet fell on the carpet.

Josephine picked it up, directed a worried gaze at him while he rubbed the spot the amulet had stung. It was on his right hand. He couldn’t blame the Anchor this time.

“Inquisitor, are you alright?” she asked.

“I― Yes, I just―” He slipped into an easy laugh, believable, fake as it was. “I must have felt the magic and got surprised. Elves are a little bit more sensitive to the Veil and the Fade, sorry if I frightened you.”

“No, it’s quite alright.” She presented the amulet once more. Lavellan took it by the cloth and didn’t directly touch it, just in case.

“Thank you, you’re a champion,” he said. “I’ll go take this to Solas.”

Josephine nodded and smiled. “Best of luck, Inquisitor.”

* * *

Solas looked up from his book when Lavellan walked into the rotunda and his eyes fell on the amulet in his hand. He stood and closed the book.

“Excellent, you have acquired it,” he said. 

Lavellan glanced at the cover and smiled. “Are you reading Varric’s book?”

“Ah, yes. Hard in Hightown. It’s an intriguing read. He is masterful with his words, weaving them in a way which strings you along. The symptom of a talented author.” He frowned at Lavellan. “Is everything alright?”

He blinked. “Do I look not alright?”

“You seem shaken.”

“Oh, ah, it’s nothing. Just a long day, is all. So then, I’ll go get Cole.”

Solas accepted the amulet and nodded, still stared at him in worry, but Lavellan escaped. He rubbed the spot on his palm where the amulet had stung him as he swung by the tavern’s attic, and sighed in relief when he found Cole there. Vergala was with him too.

“You must be so tired,” Cole murmured to Vergala. “You flew far. He made you stay, that was cruel of him. You don’t like him. He killed his shadow. It’s okay. Your shadow is light, but he’s still yours and you’re still his.”

Lavellan lingered by the stairs, the merriment of the tavern a distant sound, but he focused on their conversation.

Vergala cawed at Cole.

“It’s not the same,” he said, eyes saddening. “No. But he was never meant to be and you know that. Faces change but it’s still there, himself. You never would have found him if the wheel hadn’t turned.” Cole looked up at Lavellan, stared straight into the depths of his soul. “The eclipse is coming.”

“Good evening to you too, Cole,” Lavellan greeted, unnerved.

Vergala cawed, “Lavellan!” and circled him before settling on his shoulders. He smiled at her and rubbed the underside of her beak as she puffed her feathers. 

“Cole, I managed to get the Amulet of the Unbound,” he said. “Would you like to come with me? Solas is preparing it in the rotunda.”

His eyes widened. “Yes.”

Lavellan returned to the rotunda with Vergala and Cole who followed like a restless puppy. The amulet hovered between Solas' hands, sparking with green energy, and the hair-raising sensation skated over his skin. Lavellan held himself back. As did Cole.

“It is alright, Cole,” reassured Solas.

“It’s lightning,” he said. “Reaching for me. I don’t want to get struck.”

“It will not strike you Cole. I have calibrated and charged it and it should now work without detriment to your person. Once you wear it, you should be protected.”

Cole looked at Lavellan. He nodded at Cole but couldn’t shake off the fact that they'd both felt the same hesitation regarding the amulet.

Solas offered the amulet and Cole only walked forward once Lavellan eased and guided him towards it, gentle hand on his back. Cole placed hesitant fingers upon it, then apparently satisfied that it wouldn’t strike him, wore it around his neck. Lavellan already knew it wouldn’t work. Cole was caught between spirit and human.

Even so, he said, “Whenever you’re ready, Cole.”

He nodded. “They can’t make me a monster.”

Solas extended his arm towards the amulet, green smoke and light dancing between his fingers and over his palms. The amulet glowed, the lyrium sang—

A flash. The magic rejected.

Cole staggered back with a cry and Lavellan turned away with a grimace from the light and― And the magic itself. Vergala squawked in alarm but stayed on Lavellan’s shoulders. The aberrant energy from the amulet’s magic slithered over Lavellan’s skin and left an uncomfortable trail.

Varric made an appearance as predicted.

“What was that?” he asked, found Cole clutching his head. He frowned. “Oh for― What are you doing to the kid?”

“Stopping blood mages from binding me like the demons at Adamant,” said Cole as he turned to face him, eyes downcast. “But it didn’t work.”

“Something is interfering with the enchantment,” said Solas.

Varric crossed his arms. “Something like Cole not being a demon?”

“He’s not a demon because he’s a spirit,” said Lavellan. “They’re not actually interchangeable, you know?”

Varric raised his arms up in surrender. “Alright, but my point still stands.”

Cole made a frustrated noise and paced, shook his head. “ _I_ don’t matter!” he cried, voice rising in pitch from his distress. “Just lock away the parts of me that someone else could knot together to make me follow!” 

The three of them shared a look before Solas approached Cole and laid a careful hand on his back. 

“Focus on the amulet,” he encouraged. “Tell me what you feel.”

Cole bowed his head, silent as he thought. “Warm,” he said. “Soft blanket covering, but it catches, tears, I’m the wrong shape, there’s something…” His head snapped up and he pointed at a direction. “There,” he breathed. “That way.”

He walked away before they could comment on it.

“We should follow him,” said Lavellan and hurried after. “Cole, wait!”

But Cole’s focus narrowed, became single-minded in his purpose and stride, and it didn't look like he was going to stop even though it was already night. He turned to Vergala and nodded at Cole.

“Follow him. Tell him to wait by the horses,” he said, didn’t even spare a thought if she would understand but she was off his shoulders and following Cole without fuss. Huh. He should really stop doubting her. “Pack your bags,” he told Solas and Varric. “We’re going on an adventure. Again. Hurry before he runs off and hurts himself.”

Lavellan dashed up to his quarters and slapped on his riding gear and leather coat, slipped his weapons on his hips and back, shoved supplies in his pack, blew his hair out of his face. He frowned at it. Getting long. He grabbed a band and tied it on the way back down before slipping a cloak on. 

They reconvened at the stables where Cole indeed waited with Vergala and Solas. Lavellan requested for the stablehands to prepare horses and equip them with camping gear.

“Are you certain you don’t want to wait until morning, Cole?” Solas asked.

“No.”

Vergala flew back to him and said, “Clever Vergala.”

Lavellan chuckled. “You really going to ask me to praise you every time you do something impressive, huh? Alright. Very good, clever Vergala.” She butted her head against his neck, burrowing into the warmth of his hood.

Solas leaned on his staff as he watched the interaction. The wolves were already on his staff, swinging in the nightly breeze, their tones pleasant and soothing.

“You’ve named her,” he said.

“After long last, right?” She pulled his hood down so she could rest in it. He grumbled at the extra weight on his back. “Mashed veredhe and galanor together.”

“Elegant mayhem,” mused Solas with a faint smile. “I see. An apt name.”

Varric joined them a few minutes later, his crossbow slung over his back, hood drawn. He scowled at Lavellan and Solas. “How did you both pack so fast?”

“I do not carry much,” said Solas.

“Dalish,” said Lavellan.

“Inquisitor, your horses,” said the stablehand. She was new, though Lavellan recalled her name. Recalled her face.

Because she was one of Fen’Harel’s.

“Thank you, Samara.”

She offered him a warm smile. “Take care, Worship. Two tents and four bedrolls, as requested.” She bowed and left. 

“Do you know every single person in Skyhold?” Varric asked, mildly impressed.

“Oh, no,” said Lavellan with a soft laugh. “My memory’s not _that_ good. I just try to remember those I can.”

They swung on their mounts and followed Cole as he raced ahead. Together, the four of them (and Vergala) rode off into the night.

Lavellan’s mind spun and unravelled and knotted and tangled with questions but he was unsure what the questions were. In the end, he focused on the chill upon his face and the impending soreness of his muscles.

His mind stayed blessedly blank.

* * *

They camped for the night at the halfway point to the Hinterland and set up near the shores of Lake Calenhad.

Cole and Vergala wandered the banks while Lavellan set up the fire for the others, huddling around it and eating the jerky they'd packed for the trip. He stretched his sore legs out.

After a while of eating in silence, Varric angled his head towards Solas. “Alright, I get it, you like spirits,” he said. “But he came into this world to be a person. Let him be one.”

Lavellan glanced at him. As far as he was concerned, Cole _was_ a person. Was already one even before being Cole. He understood where Varric was coming from but the reason Cole had crossed into this world was because he was traumatised over not being able to help the original Cole, but Lavellan stayed quiet because they didn’t know that yet. 

“This is not one of your fanciful stories, Child of Stone,” said Solas. “We cannot change our nature by wishing.”

Lavellan grimaced.

“You don’t think?” challenged Varric. 

Solas gazed at the fire, expression unreadable. “However we deal with the problem, the issue at hand is whatever is interfering with the enchantment. We should focus on that.”

Varric sighed and retreated into one of the tents, no doubt still exhausted from earlier. They _did_ just return from the Hinterlands this morning. Solas stood and retreated into the other tent as well without another word. Lavellan stayed alone by the fire and stared at the flickers of it, comforted by the whispers of the Well and the crackle of the flames until he grew bored. He poured dirt into the fire and stood, deliberated sleeping, then scoffed.

He approached Cole and Vergala instead, Lake Calenhad serene in the moonlight. Lavellan sat beside Cole. Vergala nestled into his lap and he stroked her head with a soft smile.

“She misses you,” said Cole.

“She’s been with me for a while.”

“Yes.”

“And she still misses me?”

“She missed you in the space between.” 

Lavellan frowned at that, but he shook his head and filed it away instead. “How are you feeling, Cole?”

“We’re close. It’s bright but… faint. I don’t know if it’s calling or pushing me away. I need to know.” He looked at Lavellan. “Just like you need to know.”

“I know what’s about to happen, Cole,” he said. “Varric thinks you’ve become too human. What do you think?”

“As long as I can still help. That’s who I am. I don’t want to hurt.”

“What if you have to hurt to help?” Lavellan murmured.

“I don’t want to be like him. He made himself forget.”

Compassion.

Lavellan mourned that he couldn’t ask, couldn’t demand answers.

Vergala fell asleep. He draped the edge of his cloak over her and held her close.

“She understands everything you say,” said Cole. “But she holds back because she thinks you’ll be scared. She knows you test her. She’s not just a bird; she’s more.”

Lavellan frowned at that and glanced at Cole in question. “Is she possessed by a spirit?”

“More. But less. She sings like you but she stayed longer.”

“You’re not making sense.”

Cole fixed him with another stare that wrapped around his soul, picking out all the vulnerabilities like an archer scanning for weak points in enemy armour. 

“You don’t want it to make sense,” he said.

Lavellan froze. 

“What?” he asked though his voice came out shaky. “Of course I do.”

“When you start getting them back, I will help,” promised Cole. “Your memories.”

He stared down at his hands and found himself rubbing the spot where the amulet had struck him.

“Thank you, Cole.”

“You should sleep.”

“If I can.”

Cole stared at him for a while, then his eyes glimmered with new information. “You sleep better when there are stories. She sings, not as melodic as you remember, but it’s all you ever wanted. It kept you there. Saved you.”

Was he referring to his mother’s lullaby?

“What was her name?” asked Cole.

Lavellan closed his eyes. “Laneira.”

“She was named for the snow because of her hair,” said Cole. “I can’t sing but I can help you sleep.”

“Maybe later,” he murmured. “Just… stay here with me.”

He heard shuffling, soil shifting and gravel crunching, and he opened his eyes. Cole moved himself so he was sitting right next to Lavellan, head tilted skywards so he could watch the stars.

“Do they have names too?” asked Cole.

“Which?”

“The stars.”

Lavellan looked up, found and formed the constellations with ease. The stars were the Dalish’s guide as they travelled, as they hunted, as they stayed. 

“Not individually,” he said. “But clusters of them form vague shapes. Those clusters have names.”

“Why?”

“They’re guides. It’s easier to remember them when they have names.”

Cole bowed his head. “That’s why you held onto yours,” he mumbled, as if things were slowly making sense. If only he could share that with Lavellan. All he had was increasing confusion and constant dread. “What are their names?” 

Lavellan picked out one of the simpler constellations. “See that one? Vaguely looks like a sword? They named it Judex but the Dalish call it Dar’misaan.”

That was how they spent the night; tracing constellations, lit by the reflection of the moonlight on the lake’s surface, until Lavellan fell asleep. He awoke at daybreak with a blanket over him and Cole’s hat as his pillow.

* * *

Lavellan couldn’t feel his arse when they alighted at Redcliffe. Creators, he still had to ride back to Skyhold.

Cole barrelled on ahead and at least granted them the courtesy of walking and not disappearing in a curl of shadows and smoke.

Redcliffe bustled in the morning, moved and woke again, no longer in a constant state of anticipating a fall into the dark. Vibrant. Busy. Most importantly, safe. They wended through the village, squeezing through the narrow paths between cabins. Lavellan kept his hood up. No time to be delayed from being recognised and stopped. 

He noted that Varric had tied his fox on the strap of his quiver and Lavellan smiled.

They found the man Cole had been searching for near the very edge of the village outskirts where the cliffs overlooked Lake Calenhad. Lavellan clenched his fists. _Here we go_.

“You!” Cole accused. He became shadow and reappeared in front of the man, grabbed his head and forced him to kneel, held a knife against his throat. “You killed me!”

The ex-Templar held his arms up, eyes wide. “What, I don’t… I don’t even know you.”

“You forgot. You locked me in the dungeon in the Spire, and you forgot, and I died in the dark!” Every word laced with pain, pitch turning fevered and frantic and Lavellan saw the image of a young boy battering the walls with bloodied palms and begging. Cole had wailed in his pain and Compassion came.

Solas rushed forward. “Cole, stop."

Cole hesitated, but his grip loosened and the ex-Templar ran, turned the corner. Cole's grip on his dagger remained tight and his eyes burned, blazed, and he geared to follow the Templar. Varric stepped in the way with his hands raised in placation.

“Just take it easy, kid,” he urged.

The three of them did their best to calm Cole’s agitation as he explained the circumstances of the original Cole’s death, the hurt in his voice gripping at Lavellan’s chest.

Cole stalked forward. “Let me kill him,” he muttered. “I need to… I need to.”

Lavellan turned to Vergala, recalled Cole’s words last night about how she understood, how she feared Lavellan would react if he knew she understood all. He still wasn’t sure what she was but…

“Talk to him,” he said. “At least slow him down.”

She looked at him with astute, intelligent eyes, before she cawed and flew after Cole.

“We cannot let Cole kill him,” said Solas.

“Nobody was suggesting that, Chuckles.”

They launched into a debate about Cole, his purpose, his nature. Lavellan deliberated both of their views, considered them, ultimately decided they were both too extreme in their response. Solas was right, Cole couldn’t be human. Cole was a spirit and if Cole hurt this man in the name of revenge, there was a very real danger of him becoming a demon. But Solas wanted him to forget about Cole. 

That couldn't happen. Why was it that his solution to everything seemed to be _scrap it all up and do it over again_? 

“Stay put,” said Lavellan. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Wh― Inquisitor!” Solas called out. 

“Trust me.”

Solas faltered then, uncertain, body still pitched forward as if to follow. Lavellan caught up with Cole who was ignoring Vergala. Not a terribly great sign. She cawed and returned to Lavellan’s shoulders.

“Tried,” she said.

“I know, thank you.”

The ex-Templar stopped at the edge of the cliff, left with nothing but a steep drop into the unforgiving waters of the lake ahead of him. He turned, frantic. 

“I’m sorry!” he pleaded. “I’m so sorry!”

“Cole,” Lavellan called out and surprisingly, Cole stopped. A fair distance behind them lingered Solas and Varric, watching in worry.

“I need to kill him,” Cole seethed. “Let me. Please. You understand! You killed so you could feel better!”

“Please,” the Templar babbled. Lavellan shot him a venomous glance.

“Quiet,” Lavellan said. “Shutting up may very well save your life.” That did the trick. Lavellan rested a gentle hand on Cole’s shoulders, expression and disposition doing a quick shift. “Cole, I didn’t feel better after killing. You know that. I don’t kill to feel better. You know that too.”

Cole bowed his head, as if shamed. “No,” he agreed. 

Lavellan nodded at the Templar. “Is he sorry?”

Another beat of silence.

“He remembers now,” murmured Cole. “He knows he killed me.”

“Is he sorry?” he asked again. The Templar stayed silent at least, had taken Lavellan’s earlier warning to heart.

Cole shuffled, fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “Yes.”

“Is he in pain?”

“Yes,” he said. “They clap me on the back, scent of oiled metal and blood. They smile like Louis did when he made me drown the kittens. Laughter bounces off the walls like a thin child’s fists.”

“Good,” said Lavellan. “And what about you? Are you in pain?” Cole’s shoulders tensed under Lavellan’s hand and Lavellan gave it a gentle squeeze, eased him back. “You feel Cole’s pain. What about Compassion’s pain?”

“Catching through the Veil, called out and I couldn’t help his hurt. So I take his place. Free him from the pain without more pain.”

“So who did the Templar kill?”

“Me.”

“Try again,” he murmured.

Cole frowned, cast his gaze down. “Cole."

“And you are?”

“Compassion.”

“What does Compassion do?”

“I heal, help the hurt.”

“Yes,” agreed Lavellan. “And in this situation, who is hurt?”

“Me. Him.” He paused. “And Cole.”

“And do you think you can help all three of them?”

Cole shook his head. “I couldn’t save Cole. I couldn’t help him!”

“I’m going to have to clear up something here,” said Lavellan. “Helping doesn’t always equal saved. You cannot save everyone, but you can help. With little things. With big things. What did Cole say to you before he died?”

He paused in silence. Lavellan shot Solas and Varric another look over his shoulder. They were still rooted in place, anxiously watching, but he wasn’t sure how much they could hear, if at all. Solas looked ready to march over to them. But he stayed.

A soft breath escaped Cole. “He said, ‘Thank you.’” He looked at Lavellan with wide, hopeful eyes. “I… helped him?”

He smiled. “You did,” he said. “You did. Cole has been helped. Now what about Compassion? How do we help Compassion stop hurting?”

Cole watched the Templar. “I help him."

“How?”

Smoke swirled in his hand, and slowly, he raised it.

“Forget,” he said.

“No.” Lavellan covered the smoking hand with his own and eased it down. “No. Not like that.”

He looked at Lavellan with furrowed brows. “But you said to help him!”

“I did.”

“I’m helping!”

“Are you?”

They both looked at the Templar who was still cowering. Lavellan noted with dry amusement that it was quite a lovely day today for such a dreary event― skies were vibrant and blue and the sun was out but not intense. The winter chill was bearable. “Must it always end with them forgetting? You’re in a unique position, Cole. A spirit who knew what it was to be human, briefly, while remaining a spirit. You understand a few things which make this world and humans fundamentally different from the Fade and spirits. What do you think it is?”

“They… change. Not around them. In them. They change. They learn.”

Lavellan beamed. “Yes! They learn from their mistakes, they change from their mistakes. Sometimes, they need to hurt for them to grow. Sometimes, letting them carry that hurt now will help them move forward and stop other hurts from happening whether in them or in others. What about Blackwall? Is he hurt?”

“He is. Red slipping from steel, the bodies were small. No metal was worth the stain on the gold. He’s still hurt by it.”

“But has he hurt others like that after?”

His frown eased, as if something had been brought to light. “He… doesn’t want to. Wants to be kind. Like the man who gave his life for him, so he wants to be something worthwhile. Wants to save those he can.”

“Just as you helped Cole, Cole helped you too. He let you know what it was to be human.” He gripped both his shoulders now. “You are Compassion. You wish to help, but know that sometimes, you can help a person by letting them carry their hurt so they can grow and become _compassionate_. We need more of you in the world. More helpers. More who care.”

Cole looked at Lavellan, then back at the Templar again. 

“Forgive him, Compassion, but do not forget him.” He let go of Cole. “You're not Cole, but don't forget him either. He has shown you how to help in so many other ways besides forgetting. You are not as you were when you started, you’ve changed too, in a way. But you’re still you, in essence.”

And Cole took a hesitant step towards the Templar, and another, and another, until they were both eye to eye. Until the Templar fell to his knees in shivering sobs with apologies slipping from his lips like a haunted prayer. 

Until Cole placed his hand on his head and said, “I forgive you.”

The Templar looked up at Cole with teary eyes. 

“Never forget me,” said Cole. “Never forget who you killed. His name is Cole.” 

The Templar bowed his head in shame and finally let the tears flow. “Cole,” he whispered.

“Words stuck, strung from the staleness of my tongue. It’s not right.” Cole’s voice softened. “Say it. When it’s wrong, say it’s not right. You can do it. She knew you could.”

He straightened his back, before he turned and walked away. Lavellan cast one final look at the Templar, sobbing and shaking, wondered once again if his meddling would only result in harm. 

Lavellan walked back astride Cole.

“Sometimes they have to forget,” said Cole.

“Yes.”

“But sometimes, they should remember.”

“Yes.”

“And I have to choose? How do I know if I make the right choice?”

“Sometimes you can’t really tell just yet. Healing can take a while. But it happens. In small pieces.”

“Like when the Iron Bull finds it easier to smile without it being a lie every day. Or when the Magister stops crying over the locket with his son and wife.”

Lavellan smiled. “Yeah.”

They hurt. They healed. The world went on. And if they were lucky, a well-meaning spirit of Compassion would drop by and help them with the process.

Vergala cawed and hopped onto Compassion’s shoulders. Cole’s shoulders?

“What do you want to be called?” asked Lavellan. “Cole or Compassion?”

He stroked Vergala’s head. “Cole,” he said. “I’m not him, but I want to remember him. I helped him and he helped me.” He looked at Lavellan. “You helped me too. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Cole.”

When they reunited with Solas and Varric, Varric asked, “You’re not angry anymore?”

“I was. But I helped him. And I helped me too.”

Disappointment flashed in Varric’s eyes while approval flashed in Solas’.

“You helped his pain?” asked Solas. “Made him forget?”

“No.” Cole glanced at Lavellan. “If I make him forget, he won’t learn. And he’ll keep hurting. I let him remember. He hurts now, but he’ll learn, and he’ll say no when the world tells him what’s wrong is right. No more hurting. Hurting leads to hurt.” 

Lavellan chewed on his lip. “Should we try the amulet now?”

He wasn’t sure what he would do if the amulet didn’t work. If it didn’t, he’d probably have to leave it to Solas.

Because that had worked out so well for them all last time.

They ducked into a relatively hidden area where Solas cast his hands and magic out once more. Green light danced in the spaces. The lyrium sang. Its song ended not with an unfinished note but with a rounded, peaceful tenor.

Lavellan breathed easier. 

Solas lowered his hands and nodded. “The amulet is working. Cole should be sufficiently protected now.”

Cole watched the green glow of the amulet fade. He then turned and walked ahead, let Vergala hop on his hat. “She wants to fly. The children want to play. They’ll love her.”

And he disappeared, took Vergala with him. A dull pulsing ache flickered at the back of Lavellan’s head and he frowned.

Varric and Solas looked at Lavellan.

“What did you do?” asked Varric.

Lavellan sat on the floor, the strange headache tightening around his head and making him light-headed. When he glanced up at them, the world blurred for a second.

“I helped,” he answered, tongue heavy.

* * *

The headache worsened, left Lavellan faint and irritable, every light or noise a nuisance. He couldn’t clearly remember the ride back to Skyhold and the walk to the rotunda. Sit. He had to sit.

He settled for the floor because the couch was too far. Vergala cawed at him in worry. He mustered a small smile and stroked her head.

“You changed him.”

Lavellan looked up from patting Vergala at Solas who was frowning at his finished fresco. 

Varric sat on the armrest of the couch, frowning too, and all these frowning faces had Lavellan doing it as well. So by going in the middle, did he just make them both unhappy? But no, it wasn’t quite the middle was it? The middle was where they'd started. Instead of pulling one way or the other from either side, Lavellan had urged Cole into whatever direction Cole determined as forward and the result was a more nuanced view of what it meant to embody Compassion.

Hopefully.

“Is that dissatisfaction I hear?” Lavellan grumbled.

“Urging him to retain a person’s hurt?” Solas asked, whirled on Lavellan as his tone adopted the beginnings of his argumentative pitch. “That could have twisted him. It is counterintuitive to his nature as Compassion.”

“How? Because he lets them keep hurting? Didn’t you hear his whole explanation of reaping the rewards later by letting that happen? And it’s not as if that’ll be his solution to everything. Besides, the amulet worked, didn’t it?”

“The results are not always the most vital part of a solution,” he argued.

Lavellan almost threw his shoe at him. Look who was fucking talking!

“Solas, you yourself said spirits are more complex and more nuanced than what they appear to be.”

“Yes, but to a reasonable extent! You cannot keep testing the boundaries of how much you may alter the course of an outcome. Not with those who hold their own autonomy! What if your actions had hurt Cole?”

His mood darkened. Lavellan stood, though the world spun as he did, and he hoped the sudden disorientation didn’t dull his glower.

Vergala sensed the charged atmosphere and flew off to perch on the scaffolding. 

“You think I would have placed Cole in danger because I was _experimenting_? Creators Solas, just say you never trusted me and go.” The headache pulsed, skittered over his scalp.

“My disapproval does not equate to distrust, Inquisitor,” he fired back.

Varric watched them, quiet in his corner, drained from both this whole Cole ordeal and the situation with Bianca and the red lyrium. He shook his head and approached them with a relaxed yet exhausted stride. 

“Alright, let’s all take a deep breath. Glowy, nobody was saying you’re not trusted. Chuckles, stop antagonising him.”

“I suppose this outcome must please you, Master Tethras,” said Solas, snippy.

“Would you stop that?” Lavellan snapped. “Stop picking a fight with everybody, your argumentativeness gives everyone in the vicinity a headache.” Or worsened it anyway.

“Maker’s balls,” Varric muttered. “Chuckles this was never about us. This was about Cole.” He rubbed the back of his head. “And we all made it about us anyway. Look, I’ve thought about what the Inquisitor said, about the whole Cole was already a person thing and he’s right. I was projecting what I wanted onto him. I didn’t even consider him. So you know, we all sort of wanted to shape him to be what we wanted.”

“And it was the Inquisitor who made the final call,” said Solas. “Which is now well irreversible. Spirits are not meant to change. But of course we will accept this now. After all, Inquisitor Lavellan is in the right once again and always will be!”

“What the hell is your problem?” Lavellan erupted, the sudden volume worsening the constriction around his head. “You could have objected before I did anything!”

Solas clenched his jaw and pressed his lips. 

And it clicked.

Lavellan let out a disbelieving and breathy laugh. “Oh I see.”

“Do you now? Has the Inquisitor turned his hawk-eyed gaze towards me? Staring deep into my soul?”

“Try this on for size. You’re angry that you were proven wrong,” he said. “Spirits _can_ change but not in a way that defies their nature which turns them into a demon or some other grave consequence that your fatalist fetish so clearly enjoys wallowing in.” Solas pulled his lips in scorn at the remark. “Go on, say I’m mistaken. Know that you’ll be telling a lie.”

“Ah, and now you claim expertise over my person as well? Very typical of someone raised by the―”

“Bring the Dalish into this one more time and I will rip your tongue out myself, Fade Walker.”

“Please,” goaded Solas, pitch lowering, “I endeavour you to _try_.”

“Okay!” Varric intervened and clapped his hands. “Alright, that’s enough out of you two. Andraste’s ass, I need―”

“Help?”

Varric jumped as Cole materialised on the table, tilting his head at them.

“Kid!” said Varric. “Shit am I glad to see you. The elves are fighting again and the tiny dwarf is getting ran over.”

Lavellan bared his teeth at Solas, hoped it didn’t become a grimace because could that _awful fucking headache piss off_? “Perhaps if somebody had brought it up politely without resulting to making a giant argument about it because he jacks off to the sound of his own voice!”

“And if somebody were to perhaps present a sound counterpoint instead of relying on crude insults.”

“I can still present sound counterpoints while crudely insulting you. You just don’t want to listen.”

Solas’ shoulders were tense, every muscle in him coiled and crouching and ready to pounce and tear into Lavellan’s throat.

_Come fucking get me then._

“Burning, bright and bloodied. I am fire and he is light. It’s alright,” said Cole, voice softening. “I’m alright. I’m me and I won’t not be me again. They can’t press walls around me anymore.”

“It is fortunate that you are unharmed, Cole, but the damage the Inquisitor could have done―”

“Solas,” Cole assured before Lavellan could yell at him some more, “it’s alright. It will be. He didn’t make me, didn’t force me. He guided me; I answered. He didn’t change me; I changed me. And I help better like this.” 

It was lucky that the rotunda was empty for now. Last thing Skyhold needed was seeing their Inquisitor screaming at Solas.

He rubbed his face. The aftermath of anger had always left him shaking and tingling, fingers cold. Always drained him of energy. It was a taxing emotion. Lavellan was sick of it but it still festered far too easily with him, like a wound that had never fully healed.

He had to leave. Extricate himself from the situation and cool off before he said something he regretted. Maybe lie down before he collapsed because the strange headache was splitting his head now. The lights were too bright and his vision couldn’t focus.

Lavellan shook his head and turned. Terrible idea. It worsened everything and now the room was spinning.

“And where are you going?” Solas asked.

“Away. Before I say or do anything I regret.” It was cold. Chills wracked him and he hugged himself. The world swayed.

“Glowy, watch out for the―”

Lavellan clipped his shoulder on the scaffolding and he staggered back, righted himself on one of its beams. His surroundings whirled. Colours spilled from their boundaries. The headache split, cleaved, gnawed. A prickling sensation coated the back of his head and his hearing pressed, muffled.

“―sitor?”

Where was he?

He looked up, ink leaking over the spilling colours and forming two shadows, adopting the shape of two people.

 _“We are alike, you and I,”_ a cold voice whispered in his head.

 _“Don’t lump me in with the likes of you,”_ answered another voice, just as cold and faded.

A searing, spearing pain lanced from the top of his skull and Lavellan cried out. Clutched at his head. Lost his stability and collapsed, crashed onto something hard. The shadows dissipated.

“Who was that?” he muttered feverishly to himself. Reached his hand out for something steady and found nothing

The ink bled, trailed, curved in abstract patterns and another wave of chills wracked him. Winks of light.

Something cold on his forehead but something warm around him, solid against him.

“He is delirious from fever. Foolish! I should have known he wasn’t feeling well. Wake the healers and acquire elfroot tonic.”

“He had a fever and _didn’t_ tell us?”

_No, don’t—_

“No, don’t wake anyone. He won’t like that.”

“He’s not exactly in a state to decide that, kid!”

“It’s fine. We were waiting for this.”

“ _What_?”

Lavellan swayed with the world, lost in its colours. Shifted, moved with its momentum. He let it carry him like the river carried an autumn leaf to the sea. Floated, free, fell―

Hit a wall.

His body convulsed, on the first throes of its life.

“Fenedhis— Varric, help me with his cloak and collar. Get it off his neck.”

“Right.”

All the colours surged into him, filled him fit to bursting but he knew they wouldn’t stop. Would keep going and going until he became a spray of gore and ink and pigmented pain and how could anybody live like this? Why would he crawl through agony? Why?

_He turned you into art._

Ah, that was why.

Devotion spilled over his lips. 

_“It cannot be enough. Shouldn’t.”_

_“What would you know? You abandoned it.”_

_“More than you think.”_

Who was that? Who were you? Who was he? 

A soothing voice cut through the fog and the colours and disjointed shards of the shattered deep. 

“I said I would help you. I’m here. Let me help.”

Lavellan said something. 

“Yes. I will not let them.”

He splintered into a thousand stars of shadows on the bright and luminous sky.

Lavellan lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thick plottens. Lmao at Cole though. 
> 
> Lavellan: *feverish and convulsing*  
> Solas and Varric: get a doctor!  
> Cole: nah he's fine lol
> 
> Sometimes a (chaotic) family is a tired saviour, an ancient 'god', a roguish dwarf, and their spirit son.
> 
> I drew Lavellan! Quite happy with how it turned out. --> <https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/625983011475849216/worship-weighs-like-bone-slides-like-honey-and>


	32. Hunt across but never ahead

_absent eyes rise from the dead―_

* * *

_"You are a man who willingly drinks poison."_

_"What of it? You are what you eat, after all."_

His eyes opened and he cried out because he couldn't move, couldn't shift, couldn't breathe. What was this? This was wrong!

"Ma halani, [1]" he wept, whimpered, wilted. "Ma halani."

His hands reached— Hands. He stared at them, clenched and clawed at the skin and peeled the layers back. Peel it back. Where was he? Where were they?

Shadows spilled from peeling skin and who had trapped him? What curse was this? He would rend chaos upon them, chaos the likes of which they'd never seen. Who had placed him in this realm? This horrifying, _unchanging, putrid_ , realm!

"Who dares?" he shrieked. 

Someone pried his clawing fingers away from his skin and little by little, the colours filled the hazy outlines of this terrible world. The ceiling above was bare, wooden, blank, steep, the stones comprising this fortress as old as ancient sin. Older. Further back. Broken and reassembled by eyes which never realised what they'd desecrated in their ignorance.

He stared at who held his hands.

Gasped in relief.

"Compassion," he breathed. "Compassion, help. Compassion—" He tried to rise but Compassion shook its head and eased him gently back down onto something soft. Compassion was as unchanging as this nightmare of a realm. He thrashed, bared his teeth and hissed, "What is the meaning of this?"

Sharp, flickering sensations. He wrenched his hands away from Compassion and clutched at his head. His head? That was right. Head. Face. His trembling hands ran over it, over the skin, the ridge of nose, the brush of eyebrows and lashes, the chapped skin of lips. Traced the familiar lines of his devotion branded onto his skin, but he couldn’t feel where they were and no, was he barefaced?

“Where?” he choked out. Grasped blindly at his face. No, no, it couldn’t be.

“It’s alright, it’s still there,” said Compassion. “It’s not the same as it was but it’s still there.”

“It is?” he asked, voice small and frightened.

“Here,” said Compassion and held its arm up. A black shape descended upon it; a raven. Lavellan sobbed in relief.

“Vergala,” he choked out. Heat built in his chest and rose to press behind his eyes and he made a broken noise, reached for her, and she perched upon his chest, a welcome weight. He ran gentle hands over her form. The heat fell from his eyes. Clogged his chest. She emanated nothing. No familiar comfort or warmth, but no, it wasn’t her who was emanating nothing. It was him. _He_ couldn’t connect.

“Where is it?” he asked, breath hitching in his panic.

“Lavellan,” she cawed and hopped down, settled beside the crook of his neck and pressed herself against him. “Found you. Rest.”

“I hate this realm. Bring me back,” Lavellan demanded but the thickness of his voice undercut its authority.

“No, you love this world,” Compassion said. “You love it so much that you hold it up without complaining. It’s alright. You can’t go back.”

“You’re not helping!”

“I am. You just won’t see it right now. You said that to me. You have to hurt now, you have to remember, and next time it won’t be like this again.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“You do,” it affirmed and Lavellan finally noticed how glacial its eyes were. He.

“You stopped being it,” Lavellan said.

“So did you.”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do I know?”

“No.”

Lavellan roared. His eyes darted everywhere and he rose but Compassion pushed him back down and kept him there no matter how hard he thrashed.

“I’m going to die,” he gasped.

“No.”

“Let me go!”

“No.”

“I’m useless like this!”

“No.”

Vergala squawked, bit and pulled a lock of Lavellan’s hair, flew and flapped her wings in his face and cawed in disapproval and he had no need to feel anything from her because she'd made herself clear enough. He stopped struggling and fell back onto the soft surface, the press of heat overwhelming. His vision blurred. Wet. He wiped it away.

“Compassion, _please_ ,” he begged.

There were whispers. In the back of his mind, there were whispers.

And they were afraid.

Another pulse of stabbing pain in his head and he closed his eyes, scrunched his brows, whimpered.

“It’s okay,” eased Compassion. “Knocking in the night, no fear of the dark. Let it in. Through. She said to drink from the glass so you won’t drown in the ocean. It’s okay.”

_“I see it,” I say. “You turn me into art.”_

_He is solid, moving and acting with such precision. Violet eyes._

_“Who are you?” he asks._

_“I am―”_

Gone.

Lavellan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and all was dark again.

* * *

He awoke sore all over. Ached from his knuckles to the muscles between his ribs, all the way to his jaw. It took him a beat to recognise his surroundings as his quarters and that he was on his bed. The light outside was dim, but its softness indicated dawn, not dusk. There was a weight in his hand and when he lifted it, he found his fingers gripped so tight around his stone that it took some time for him to uncurl them. Dried blood beneath his nails. Sore fingertips. Someone had wrapped his forearms, patches of red staining the dressing.

A warm presence beside his head. He turned and found Vergala asleep and nestled beside his pillow, head turned, beak buried in the feathers of her back.

Vergala.

His throat dried. Fragments from before returned.

“Cole?” he rasped, franticness descending upon his tone. “Cole?”

“I’m here.”

Lavellan relaxed. Cole appeared beside him, carrying a glass of water which he lifted to Lavellan’s lips. He finished the glass in three greedy gulps, brought some cognisance back into him. He laid his head back on the pillow and contemplated the ceiling above him.

This was what Memory had warned him about. The first instance of his memories returning.

It answered nothing.

Save one.

“Cole?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes?”

Lavellan paused, hesitated. Then, “Am I a spirit?”

And Cole looked upon him with a gaze that disassembled him.

“Not anymore. You’re more, now.”

Lavellan let out a small, quaking breath, covered his eyes with his arm and bit his lip until it hurt.

“Did I possess this body? Was there ever a Mahanon of Clan Lavellan?” he asked, bitterness seeping into it.

“Yes,” said Cole. “You. You’ve always been Mahanon. That’s your name. One of them.”

One of―

This was too much. This was… First, the world slapped an unknown mark of magical origin on him, made him its Herald, then made him fight as their Inquisitor. He bound himself to Mythal, killed an ancient darkspawn magister, fell for the Dread Wolf who broke his heart, then he fought and killed the stupid Wolf, then he was thrown back into time to do it all over again.

And _now_ he was a fucking spirit?

He pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes.

What was he the spirit of?

Lavellan’s eyes snapped open and he scrambled up, unsteady on his feet, supported by Cole. He fumbled for the drawer. Yanked it open.

He stared at the tarot card from the Fade.

The two-headed raven had shifted. Both heads now looked right at him with unblinking, unerring, unnerving eyes. Lavellan reached for the card with shaking hands and held it tight, stared at the word written on the banner.

_Change._

“Fuck.”

* * *

“I didn’t let him forget,” said Cole, watching Skyhold waking below them. Dawn had passed, gave way to morning.

Lavellan looked up from buttoning his coat. 

“Who?” he asked.

“Varric forgot because he’ll worry, ask, but I made Solas remember.”

His panic burbled. “Why?” he hissed. “I can’t have him asking questions either.”

“You don’t have to tell him. I told him it’ll hurt you if he asks, so he won’t ask, but he has to remember.”

“Why?” he asked again.

Cole stared at him. “ _Fresh fit of fear, feverish and delirious in my arms. He is mortal. I could lose him._ He carried you here. I had to convince him to leave your side. You told me people have to remember sometimes. He has to remember so he doesn’t hide behind anger. He’s just scared because you’re making him doubt.”

“That’s not an excuse,” he murmured but his heart stilled.

“No,” agreed Cole. “But now he knows where the anger came from. He’s hurting, too. I’ll try to help both of you.”

“That’s a large undertaking, Cole.”

“Yes. Both whispering, shore on shore, waves the size of the world in his, still lake stretching into the dark in yours. But I’ll try.”

Lavellan fixed his cuffs, asked carefully, “Can I keep making him doubt?”

“Probably. Gentle but forceful, finding the faults and lines like an arrow sinking in the space between the plates. Not as wise as he thought. Watching the arrow sink deeper and wishing it ends or saves him. You can keep pushing. But you have to push right.”

“Keep hunting the Wolf,” Lavellan murmured.

He dusted off the front of his coat, ready to show the Inquisition their capable Inquisitor once more, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Gaunt and pale in his golden uniform.

He didn’t know who he was anymore.

“You’re still you,” said Cole.

“Not who I thought I was.”

“Maybe. What does it change?”

“What does it― Everything!” He pulled at his hair and turned away from his reflection, mind whirling, heart swelling, chest tightening. Lavellan tore at his collar. Gasped for breath, vision tunnelling. Another wave of chills, numbed fingers and slipped, slipped out from beneath him. Threads unravelled. Knotted, caught and tore on the shards of tumult and tears.

The world was falling.

Had to fight. Danger. Had to go, fight, flee, free. He cast his hands out, grabbed, anything to hold him together. Held. Slipped. Smashed.

“It’s okay.” A blue glow in his periphery, wisps of smoke diffusing off him as Cole took the hurt, gentle hands freeing the threads from the shards, and the tension in him dissipated with every released strand.

His vision widened. Calm descended upon him and he took a few shuddery breaths.

He was kneeling on the floor, hands covering his face. Lavellan looked up and blinked blearily.

Glass shards littered the carpet in front of him, his mirror broken, had smashed it in his distress. Blood dripped from his knuckles. A hundred scattered pieces of his reflection stared back at him and he almost scoffed. What was this? Some kind of sick symbolism?

Cole knelt beside him and cleaned the blood off his knuckles while Vergala flew onto his lap.

“Nothing was a lie,” said Cole. “You came here to help.”

“I don’t even remember that,” he whispered, looked at Cole and wished he were a stronger person. Wished he could just stand and go about his day and tackle this all with finesse instead of crumbling and failing to function and being a general waste of space. “Am I like you then? I came here because Mahanon needed help and I just kept believing I was Mahanon?”

Cole frowned. “You _are_ Mahanon.” He shook his head and wrapped Lavellan's knuckles. “You’re not really a spirit. Not anymore. A space, not a slide. You still answer the call of what you used to be. You do it and you don’t even realise it. Like when Aenoreir wanted to charge through the path and take down the deer but you used the river and came back faster. Clever. That’s why they wanted you to lead.” Cole finished wrapping his knuckles and stared at the broken mirror. “But you’re more now. You don’t just make change. You move _with_ the change, make yourself into whatever you have to so you survive. Now you change again. But that’s okay. That’s just you.”

Lavellan scoffed but it sounded weak. “Some would say that’s fake or fickle.”

He tilted his head in genuine confusion. “Because it’s not them. It’s you.”

“Cryptic as always, Cole,” said Lavellan but it managed to make him laugh. Maybe Cole was right. Lavellan survived, that was what he did best. Nothing stayed the same ― situations always changed, an upheaval in established order. Either ride the currents of the river or smash into the rocks. That was what the old Warleader used to say.

“He yelled a lot because he lost his son when he wasn’t looking. You can be a good successor if you stopped asking so many questions.” Cole blinked. “You brought back the druffalo, all of you dragging it across the forest, and he wanted to weep. _He did it. I knew he could do it_. You cried when he died.”

Lavellan closed his eyes. The closest he had to a fatherly figure.

_“Mahanon, quit worrying about the shemlens across the river. You can’t even drag your damn foot fast enough after you sidestep! You have another problem in front of you. Deal with that first. Now get up and hold your sword properly, whelp.”_

_“I don’t like swords, I like daggers.”_

_“If you can’t even skewer an unmoving piece of wood with a sword, what makes you think you can hit it with something shorter? Again. Unless you want to get stabbed through the gut by the halla you’re riding.”_

Creators, Lavellan had wanted to stab that man sometimes.

But he was right. Worrying about the weapon for the next hunt would get him gutted by a ram in the current one. Many questions were raging in his mind but he would learn them all, one by one, one at a time, at whatever pace they deemed to reveal themselves to him. Right now, he had other concerns. More salient concerns. The Inquisition needed him and he had to stand, lead, give others the subtle pushes they needed.

Sink his arrows deeper into Solas.

He gently urged Vergala to his arm and she followed. She was familiar. Another mystery for him to solve, but for now, he could use the magnificent extent of her abilities.

“You know, we should take up Dagna’s offer on that spy gear, hm?”

She cawed in agreement.

“She wants you to stop holding back,” said Cole. “She knows faces. Knows names. She’ll come when you need her, wherever you are. She’s never far from you. Never again.”

Lavellan stared at her, turned that new information in his head.

“We’ll figure out what our connection is later,” said Lavellan and he smiled. “But for now, think you can do something for me, clever girl?”

“Yes,” she cawed. “Anything! Clever girl.”

“Assemble the War Council. It’s time to go to the Exalted Plains.”

* * *

Creators, what a mess.

Lavellan scanned the Exalted Plains from his vantage point atop the remnants of the elven bridges, lips pursed in his displeasure at how the civil war had ravaged this land so. The Dirthavaren. The Promise. Remnants of the Elvhen were stronger here. Remnants of the Elven too. This wretched place where they'd called an Exalted March upon his people.

One day, the elves wouldn’t be the footstone all these bloodthirsty and closed-minded fools tracked their muddy feet on. Wouldn’t be the sandbags they plunged their rusting swords into.

One day.

Today though, demons were everywhere. The trees were skeletal, blackened and thin, and an orange haze blanketed the skies and the land.

He descended and returned to camp a distance away, completely ignored Solas still. He ignored Lavellan in turn. Occasionally he’d shoot Lavellan a quick look. Cole would glance between the two of them and frown to himself as if he was stuck on a puzzle.

“This place is like a ghost town,” muttered Blackwall, oiling his sword.

“Too many people hurting, harming, hacking open a hole for the demons to pour in,” said Cole. “Why did they have to fight?”

“Yeah, can you… not do _that_ a lot?” Bull asked.

“ _Tama, how will I follow the Qun?_ Her hands, strong but gentle, ruffles stubs where the horns will be,” said Cole, voice low and eyes glazed in that certain way. “ _You are strong and your mind is sharp. You will solve problems others cannot._ She smiles, but sadly.”

“Exactly like that,” Bull grumbled and crossed his arms. “Looks like my old Tamassran was wrong. Bet she’s pissed one of her kids went Tal-Vashoth.”

“Agents with hushed tones. Eyes stinging, forms to fill out, course corrections, reduce risk of similar losses. I remember the little boy, too wise, eager to help. Words break in small secret spaces. _He got away. He got away_.”

The camp quieted, stared at Cole, then at the Iron Bull who held himself in a way which screamed of false confidence.

“How could you know that?” Bull asked, soft. “You’ve never even met her.”

“Your hurt touches hers.”

“Well. That’s, uh, creepy.” He hesitated, uncrossed his arms, and turned away to sort out his supplies. “But… thanks.”

Cole smiled.

Solas observed Cole, brows furrowed, before he directed that look at Lavellan who pointedly disregarded him. Why did he bring Solas? He could have just left him. Dorian was here so it wasn’t as if they were lacking mages.

Their team readied themselves. Cassandra wished to come but her shield arm was still giving her trouble and Varric’s ribs still needed time to heal so those two were under strict orders to stay in Skyhold.

Lavellan’s attention fell on the small warhorn hanging from Bull’s belt and the dragon carving looped around its strap. Blackwall had the phoenix wrapped securely around his scabbard. Cole’s rabbit dangled from the button of his pouch which held his throwing knives, and Dorian came out of his tent, tucking the ouroboros he'd turned into a necklace beneath his shirt. And of course, Solas with the wolves on his staff.

“Is everybody ready?” Lavellan asked, rolling in his warm affections at the fact that everybody had kept his carvings and even displayed it.

“I can already smell the dead bodies from here,” chirped Dorian. “You take me to the most charming places.”

“Begging pardon, Dorian. I’d ask Orlais to stop shitting up the place but I have a feeling they’ll either shiv me or give me a bucket so I can mop their floors.”

“Damn, you really hate Orlais, huh?” asked Bull.

“Servant with a hand-shaped bruise on her neck, leers following a young man with fair hair and beautiful eyes. They don’t see me They see the ears. Stepping, spitting, stealing what makes them people. Servants, not slaves. Next room over, she cries as he pushes her and grabs her by the ears like a horse to be broken. _Stop, please―”_

“Maker,” breathed Blackwall.

“That,” said Lavellan, voice low, “is why I hate Orlais. Next question?”

They looked away save Cole who wasn’t looking at him in the first place, and Solas. Lavellan met Solas’ gaze. Briefly. He turned at the silence and walked.

“Let’s go see what those idiots screwed up this time.”

* * *

“I serve the rightful emperor of Orlais―”

Lavellan resisted rolling his eyes because at this rate, they were going to roll right out of his sockets, pick up his daggers, and stab Lavellan in the kidneys and he wouldn’t even be sad.

“Listen,” said Lavellan, running out of patience, “we’re not here for the civil war. We’re here to figure out why people are dying and why the dead are rising. Specifically, why _your_ dead are rising. So, let’s make this a little easier, soldier. What’s happened, in less than five words?”

The chevalier stuttered, frowned at Lavellan. “I don’t―”

“Do you speak to your commanding officers in paragraphs?”

“No.” He eyed Lavellan’s armour which looked somewhat official and amended, “Uh, ser.”

“Ser,” he scoffed. “Go on. Tell me.”

The chevalier looked down, hopefully pilfering through the unnecessary declarations of allegiance and getting to the damn point. “Rising dead, no soldier contact…?”

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?”

He snapped to attention. “Rising dead, no soldier contact!”

Somebody snickered behind him. Dorian, probably.

“Five words,” mused Lavellan. “Very good. And what do you want us to do about it? I’ll give you some leeway. Six words.”

“How is that a leeway?” Blackwall wondered beneath his breath.

“Pretty generous leeway,” Bull said with an amused shrug.

“Retake… and secure… ramparts.” The chevalier counted on his fingers. “Contact soldiers.” Then he smiled, proud of himself. Lavellan acquiesced.

“Alright, done. We’ll get rid of your demon problem and re-establish contact lines. You go find your nearest garrison and stay holed up there until we clean up this mess.”

“Oh, thank you. Ser.”

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” said Dorian. “It’s Inquisitor, you poor sod. Run along before you get an aneurysm.”

His eyes boggled. “Inquisitor? The knife-ear who―”

Lavellan narrowed his eyes and tapped his foot with an unimpressed look.

“You best be going,” Solas advised, the hints of a threat in his voice, and the chevalier took one look at the mages and their staves, Lavellan and his tattoos and ears, the giant Qunari, the brooding warrior who looked like an absolute tank, and nodded shakily. He ran off.

Lavellan let him run for a few metres before he whistled for Vergala. She perched on his waiting arm.

“Follow him. Lead us to the garrison later.”

She cawed and took flight and Lavellan drew his daggers, crossed the bridge into one of the ramparts. It was in poor state. Rubble on the floor, planks of broken wood, blood smeared on the sandbags. Fallen weapons. Crushed armour. Broken arrows. Gangrenous hand. He pulled a face at the smell.

War always made such a mess of things. Waste of life. Waste of everything.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you this surly before,” said Dorian.

“This place doesn’t put me in a good mood, no,” he admitted. “Neither do chevaliers.”

“Why?”

Lavellan crouched and examined the relatively fresh trail of blood. Too dark, congealed. Blood of an undead, then. He peered at the winding paths of the ramparts ahead.

“Do you know what the chevaliers do for their final test in the academy?” Lavellan asked.

“I assume some sort of overblown ceremony? Moving through the steps of a ridiculously named manoeuvre like _Bear Mauls the Wolves_?”

Lavellan stood. “They go into the streets of Halamshiral’s slums and slaughter elves.”

The silence which fell upon the group was as oppressive as the lingering aura of death and taste of rot.

“They what?” asked Dorian, voice faint. “They can’t do that!”

“Why not? They’re chevaliers. An elf wronged a lord here, an elf insulted the honour of a comte there, someone's staying out past curfew. Does it matter if it’s true? Chevaliers are the noble, shining beacons of honour and valour. Anything they do is in the name of Orlais.”

He looked back at them. They shuffled in the discomfort.

“Yeah. Uncomfortable, isn’t it?” Lavellan asked, not unkindly. “And I can’t do a damn thing.” He turned.

“Not yet,” said Cole. “It’s a promise, burning dark in your mind. You want to channel your anger, choose to change it. They won’t say thank you and they won’t even know you helped but that’s not why you do it.” He looked down, said softly, “That’s not why we do it.”

The space between Lavellan’s shoulder blades itched from Solas’ stare.

“Not yet,” Lavellan promised. In this land of the promise.

The undead cropped up and they fell back into the rhythm of things, the almost monotonous motions of the fight. Lavellan doused himself in fire, the glow of the runes on his daggers flashing as they cleaved a line of cleansing light through the walking corpses.

Lavellan hated the ramparts. The number of times they ran into dead-ends or sharp blockades wasn't charming, and it wasn’t like the undead and the demons would wait for them to draw up a map and navigate with that.

The Arcane Horror and the pile of dead bodies was the topping on this failure of a cake.

Needless to say, being barraged by spiritual energy hurt like a charm and it worsened his mood. Lavellan opened a sunder and let Bull land the killing blow on it.

Blackwall helped Lavellan up. “You alright?”

“Never been better,” he muttered. Blackwall laughed and patted him on the back. “Someone please burn the pit of dead bodies.”

The smell. Reminded him of―

“No,” Cole whispered, stopped the threads from catching on the jagged edges. “It’s not the same. You’re here. You’re not there. You won’t be there again.”

Lavellan took a shaky breath. “Thank you, Cole.”

Dorian and Solas destroyed the barriers and set fire to the bodies so that they couldn’t be possessed by spirits. The rot stuck to his skin. Bull blew the large war horn and signalled the clear for the soldiers.

They spent a few more minutes dragging undead bodies to the burning pit and the smell got so terrible that Solas had to place a magical dome around the pit to block the stench. In that time, soldiers fighting for Gaspard had arrived to reclaim the ramparts.

“Inquisitor.”

Lavellan turned and met with a soldier, appraised his uniform and armour. Corporal.

He was proven right when the soldier knocked his fist to his breast plate in salute and said, “I greet you. My name is Corporal Rosselin.” To Lavellan’s profound relief, he didn’t start declaring for which side and who the rightful ruler was.

“Corporal,” Lavellan returned. “We’ve taken the barrier down around the pits. There should be no undead rising here now.”

“I fear this is not the only rampart where the undead are rising from,” he said. “We hear Fort Revasan requires assistance. I would go but…” He turned and assessed the soldiers piling in, a majority injured, and Lavellan was sure their injuries weren’t from the civil war. “If Your Worship could continue assisting us? For now, we will ensure the surrounding area is clear from the demons and those Maker-forsaken deserters.”

“Freemen of the Dales,” Lavellan said, unimpressed.

Corporal Rosselin sighed. “Yes. Them.”

“Alright, we’ll find Fort Revasan.”

“I’ll see if I can find a map.”

Lavellan eyed the skies. Vergala’s familiar shape approached.

“No need,” he said and put his arm up so she could perch on it.

“Demons,” she cawed. “Soldiers fighting demons.”

“Know where to go?”

“Know where to go.”

He let her perch on his shoulders and nodded at Corporal Rosselin who eyed Vergala in wonder.

“It speaks?”

“Kind of. Be well, Corporal.” Lavellan nodded at his team and they exited the ramparts. If Lavellan walked faster than seemed warranted as the eyes of the soldiers fell on him (and lingered far too long on his face and ears), then it was largely justified. No one stopped or harassed him though. They owed their victory to him.

Once they were out of the ramparts, he breathed easier. Vergala flew off his shoulders and led them.

“Well, you were behaved in front of that Corporal this time. No ordering anyone to speak in six words or less,” said Dorian.

“He didn’t start by announcing he fought for the rightful ruler of the throne. My standards are actually very low.”

“Yet very specific,” said Solas. First thing he’d said to Lavellan in days.

“If they’re going to be low, I may as well be picky with them.”

He tore through the demons that they stumbled into on the way. They passed by a village that had beenransacked by the fighting, buildings crumbled, remnants of fire licking at what little fuel they could attain. Lavellan entered what used to be a house. Now nothing but broken walls and rubble floors. Toppled shelves. Burnt beds. He crouched by the corner, pushed slabs of concrete out of the way, and picked up a doll in a sooty blue gown. Blood on the fabric.

Lavellan hoped the village had been evacuated.

Blackwall stood behind him, looking at the doll in his hand. “This was the front of the civil war,” he murmured, sorrowful past the war.

They walked out. Lavellan carried the doll with him until they reached what sparse forest remained on the plains and picked a few flowers along the way. Lavellan placed the doll and the flowers within the hollow of a tree before moving on.

Soon, Fort Revasan greeted them. Lavellan recognised the chevalier from earlier fighting off a demon with his fellow soldiers. There was an Arcane Horror there. Creators, they were going to get themselves killed.

“Dorian, barrier on the soldiers, Solas on us.” 

Lavellan and his group swept in and cut the demons down with the efficiency and skill they'd accrued from fighting these damn things too much. Not that it was the demons’ fault though. Most of them were spirits that had been forcefully thrown into this world, twisted from the shock.

“Inquisitor,” the chevalier from earlier greeted. Wheezed more like. He had a gash over his brow, bleeding over his swollen eye. He held himself strange. Broken ribs? “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Come. We’ll open the fort. Surely we can get someone to see to your ribs.”

The chevalier nodded, face pale.

Fort Revasan opened and in they went. So many of Gaspard’s troops here, but right now, there was no _Gaspard’s forces_ or _Celene’s forces_. There were only dying soldiers and trapped soldiers.

They asked a soldier to lead them to whoever their superior was, masked faces following their movement as they passed.

“Revasan,” Lavellan said as he watched the haggard soldiers, fraught and taut and wishing they were either dead or free or victorious. “How ironic.”

“Why’s that?” asked Bull.

“Means ‘where freedom dwells’ except… Well, not exactly freedom at the moment. They’re holed up in here.”

Their gazes lingered on his vallaslin. Lavellan was used to it, in another life, but he’d gotten comfortable again, surrounded by the more accepting in Skyhold. He shot those staring soldiers a look and smiled a certain way, knew that would make the vallaslin shift and make them look that little bit more alive. The soldiers looked away.

“Please stop scaring them,” sighed Dorian.

“I don’t tolerate their staring. Not when I’m here mopping up the mess they made on our front door.”

“It has not been your front door for many centuries,” remarked Solas. “I believe that was the whole point of the Exalted March.”

Lavellan sent him a cold side-eye. “Does it feel nice being right about something again?”

He frowned, gaze turning steely. “Mock if you will. That does not erase the truth of the statement no matter how loud the Dalish yell that the Dales is theirs.”

“If we don’t yell, the world will drown us out. Kindly shut the fuck up about things you don’t understand or didn’t go through.”

At least he didn’t argue further. Blackwall coughed. Dorian and Bull shared an uncomfortable look and Lavellan sighed.

“Come on,” he mumbled. “Let’s go meet the Marshal.”

Marshal Proulx caught them up on the situation at the Exalted Plains and he winced at its state. Admittedly, he couldn't remember the details from before. All he knew was that the dead were rising from the pits in the ramparts and it was somehow tied to the Freemen. Maybe. He couldn’t be sure.

“Let’s get back to camp soon. It’s almost twilight. Don’t want to be caught dead in the dark with the demons about. We’re going to need help with all the ramparts so I’ll send for the others.”

“Freemen have taken the eastern ramparts," said Blackwall. "You also have the Victory Rise ramparts,” 

“Riverside Garrison too,” said Lavellan. “Got the stranded troops on the other side of the bridge. Soldier effects to recover. We need everyone, especially if the eastern ramparts are guarded by the living. The living can think and strategise.”

“How long you think we’ll be here?” asked Bull.

“Hopefully not past the month.”

“I dearly hope so.” Dorian sniffed. “I would hate to miss the First Day celebration at Skyhold.”

“Lady Josephine would throw a fit if you weren’t there,” Blackwall said with a warm chuckle.

Oh Lavellan was sure she would. “If it can’t be helped then it can’t be helped. Well, that’s our goal then. Get everything here sorted out before the end of this wretched year and go celebrate 9:42 and hope it doesn’t kick us in the ass as bad as this year did.”

“You going to terrorise people with your mask and cloak again?” Bull asked, smiling.

Lavellan grinned. “I’m a little too obvious this time since nobody’s wearing them too.”

“Were you ever caught that night?” Dorian asked.

He recalled the soft moonlight, the teasing conversation, Solas slipping Lavellan’s mask off, his tender smile tinged with sorrow as he'd claimed whatever reward he had in mind that night.

“Maybe,” he said and didn’t spare Solas a look.

* * *

Lavellan frowned at his daggers, the firelight glinting off its edge, inspecting it to make sure it didn't have nicks that could weaken its structural integrity. It seemed alright. His leather coat was fraying though. No good. He patted himself down and made sure he had no hidden injuries. As it was, he was fine. A few bruises and scratches but nothing that a healing potion and magic couldn’t help.

Cole sat beside him, the carved rabbit in his hand.

“Be careful,” he said. “Tonight. There’s no water on the shore. That means it’s pulling back. Coming cold and careful so you should probably watch out.”

Lavellan stared at him. “When?”

“Your dreams.”

He stood and sat beside Solas next and they engaged in a hushed conversation. Lavellan looked away so he wouldn’t end up staring at Solas because that way lay trouble.

Dorian collapsed next to him on the log. “Truly lovely day we’ve had," he grumbled.

He snorted. “Simply spectacular. The demons were my favourite part.”

“They were the _only_ part, Inquisitor.” He paused. “Oh, well, I suppose we had the Orlesians. You bossing that chevalier around was the true highlight of this dreadful day.”

Lavellan laughed and shoved him away.

“Yeah, that was great,” said Bull before he crossed his arms and mimicked Lavellan’s voice. Not that his impressions were any good. They never were. “ _What’s happened? In less than five words?_ ”

Dorian did the same and glowered theatrically. “ _I’ll give you some leeway. Six words_.”

Even Blackwall joined in. “Oh this one was my favourite. _Do you speak to your commanding officer in paragraphs_?”

The three guffawed. Lavellan hunched and pulled his coat up over his head as best as he could and slid down the log, a little more than mortified now.

“Traitors, the lot of you.” Four out of five of them, actually. Once Lavellan realised only Dorian was the one who'd remained loyal or honest here, he almost laughed with them. He stood. “I’m going to bed.”

“His ears are red,” cooed Dorian.

“Trick of the light,” Lavellan grunted and entered the tent.

“We’ll start using five words or less,” promised Bull.

“Suck my dick.”

“What, now?”

Lavellan snapped the tent flap shut and harrumphed at the laughter outside but couldn’t help the smile on his lips.

Once silence fell in the camp, back to soft whispers, Cole’s clear voice said, “Rings of light and lilted laughs. I wanted them to know how much they mean so I gave them some of myself and they wear it on their hearts. Maybe I can do it. I lead but they guide, constellations, and they know I’d die for them.”

Silence.

A collective cooing.

“Shut up!” Lavellan screeched. He grabbed the nearest item which turned out to be a spare belt and hurled it out the tent flap and they laughed anew. He huffed and buried himself in the bedroll.

Lavellan had meant to retreat and sleep as a joke but the exhaustion bowled him over and he made a surprised noise, hadn’t realised how fatigued he truly was. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep. Lulled to sleep by the soft conversations outside.

* * *

He awoke beneath the stars.

Lavellan frowned, sat up with a groan and looked around him. Still at camp, the fire reduced to coal and soft embers, his friends asleep in their bedrolls. Lavellan looked down. He was in his roll too. No, wasn’t he in the—

He turned but there was only the forest behind him.

Tent…?

Strange.

Lavellan glanced back at his companions and relaxed at their serene faces. He was about to settle in and sleep again but a caw caught his attention. Vergala perched on a nearby tree. She blinked, eyes violet.

“Vergala?” he asked.

She flew into the forest.

“Wait, come back,” he said, wrangled himself out of the bedroll.

The moonlight was golden, a full eclipse. Its rays gilded the edges of the leaves and dripped down the great trunks. Lavellan entered the forest. The golden moonlight turned scarlet but Lavellan pushed on, searching for Vergala before she could get hurt.

Faces shifted in the trunks, wrinkles forming eyes, nose, moving mouths. They spoke yet made no sound. Sap dripped from their lips ― deep and honeyed and gold, broken bone within each drop. The faces moved as he passed. Chanting, singing, greeting.

Lavellan ignored them.

The faces wept silver.

Lavellan turned at a gnarled tree and found a cloaked figure beneath the tree Vergala had perched on. He paused. The figure had their back to him, wearing a cloak of raven feathers, the hood pulled over their head.

Vergala cawed at him. She flew deeper into the forest and the cloaked figure followed her.

Lavellan’s heart lurched. He cast his hands out. “Wait!”

They did not wait.

He and the cloaked figure moved at the same pace but the distance merely increased. Lavellan ran, but the distance stretched further, further, yet the cloaked figure always remained within sight. Always in the corner of his vision. Like a word he had forgotten, on the tip of his tongue. Every movement made the cloak of feathers seem alive under the crimson moonlight.

“Who are you?” he called out.

The faces in the trees clicked their mouths open and close as if someone had winded their jaw. Almost as if they were laughing. Their eyes rolled to the back of their head and revealed another set of eyes with owlish proportions, rings of psychedelic colour within them dripping and leaking over the silver.

Lavellan chased the figure in the cloak of feathers.

They had answers. Lavellan wanted it. Could taste it on his lips as he licked them, felt them with every press of his bare feet against the dry leaves. He tore through the forest. Sped like the gales, flew like the fastest fowl. Not that it mattered.

“Wait!” he called out again. “Come back.”

The moon fell from the sky.

They stopped at a clearing at last, the figure right in the middle as the sky devoured the falling moon. The red moonlight faded and the figure turned. Slow.

The faces in the trees laughed shrilly.

Before darkness set, Lavellan saw the figure’s face.

They had none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et voilà. 
> 
> We're in the Dales at last. It's gonna be FUN. It's gonna be GREAT. Lavellan is going to ~~be STRESSED~~ have so much FUN.
> 
> Me @ me: chill with the raven imagery and ominous dreams  
> Also me, grabbing at it like a little gremlin and shoving it into my slimy gremlin bag: It's for art!!!
> 
> (I am once again crippled by Solas feels. This is not fun. Please, you stupid egg, let me rest. Mans is practically living in my mind rent-free. NOT IN THIS ECONOMY! Pay your rent.)
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Ma halani:** Help me[⇧]


	33. The war-torn plains

disgraced home of ours—

* * *

When Iron Bull awoke and stepped out of his tent, Lavellan was already up and preparing the pheasant.

“Mercy,” he greeted, voice rough from sleep. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he said, grave as he methodically cut the meat, hand steady even if he didn’t feel it. Not after the dream. Whatever that was. “How do we feel about smoked pheasant for breakfast?”

“Sounds good.” He sat and frayed one end of a stick and chewed on it to clean his teeth, scrutinised Lavellan as he did. “You didn’t sleep well,” he noted after an extended silence, threw the stick away.

Lavellan grunted but said nothing else. Cole was at the edge of the camp, had been there to help after Lavellan had woke up. Either Blackwall or Solas would wake soon. Dorian always woke last. The pheasant was done by the time everybody was up.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” Blackwall asked.

“Ramparts are out of the question,” Lavellan said. “We need everyone here along with a few more forces and I swear to every god that exists out there, if I see Varric and Cassandra with them, I’m going to break their shins.” They better be resting. He'd specified in his letter for them to sit still and not come.

Great, they were going to come, weren’t they?

“Cassandra would break your shins first and Varric would distract you with a story,” said Bull.

Lavellan hesitated. “Okay, maybe Cassandra, but Varric can’t distract me.”

“Mercy, not sure if you noticed, but stories distract you really quickly.”

“They don’t.”

“I had a wonderful dream, Inquisitor,” Solas piped up. “I dreamt of a ruin in our vicinity. I believe them to have been ancient baths used by the Elvhen.”

He frowned at Solas. “Nearby?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Bull laughed. “See?”

Lavellan stemmed the tide of questions about to pour forth from him and he turned his head away with a huff. “You set me up,” he accused Solas.

“I did no such thing. I truly did dream of the ancient baths. They were the favourite baths of one of Ghilan’nain’s High Priests, I believe.”

The whole camp stayed quiet as Lavellan steadfastly ignored him, sawed through the cooked meat of the pheasant, pursed his lips. No, stories did not distract him, thank you very much. So what if it had been a High Priest of Ghilan’nain’s favourite bath? What did that even mean? A favourite bath? A favourite communal bath? What would have made it so special that they preferred it over the others?

Lavellan stilled his cutting and hung his head with a defeated sigh.

“And what exactly made this bath preferable over the others?”

Bull leaned back with a smug grin and Lavellan cursed him out. Still, his worrying dream disappeared from his mind. Momentarily at least. Better than nothing.

* * *

The next day, his companions arrived at the Plains. Cassandra and Varric alighted from the recently arrived wagon.

Lavellan rolled up his sleeves and grabbed Bull’s battle axe leaning against the requisition table.

Varric held his hands up in a calming gesture. “Wait, wait, wait!”

“Go back,” said Lavellan and hefted the axe over his shoulder. It was heavy, but he could manage the weight for a few minutes. 

“Get the axe away from him!” Varric cried.

“I told you to rest,” he said.

Varric hid behind Cassandra who crossed her arms while Sera cackled.

“We are not here to fight,” she said. “But we will lend our help in other matters requiring strategy.”

Lavellan squinted at them.

“Fine,” he said and returned the axe.

“You didn’t even take it off him,” Varric cried at Bull who stood nearby. 

He shrugged. “It was funny.”

Sera all but vaulted off her wagon and leapt at Lavellan, knobby knees and sharp elbows digging into him as she wrapped her limbs around him in a hug. He staggered back.

“Heya, Quisitree,” she said and jumped off him. 

“I’m sorry, what did you just call me?”

“What? Quisitree? Inquisitor, tree. All tough and barky outside but got sap inside,” she said as if it made perfect sense. “Clever, innit?”

“Tree,” he sighed. Throw that one in with the pile of nicknames. “Anyone else want to give me a nickname while we’re at it?”

“Five,” said Dorian as he passed by.

“How about: Six,” said Blackwall.

“Nah, both,” said Bull. They looked at each other.

“Fifty-six,” they said in unison.

Varric frowned. “What?”

“Oh have we got a story for you,” said Bull. “Come here, let me tell you all about it.”

Maybe Lavellan would retire early after all.

“Oh!” said Sera. “Widdles has a present for you!” She ran back into the wagon, then came out and shoved a bow and a quiver into his hands. Lavellan ogled at the wood she'd used. Ironbark. The Dalish’s preferred crafting material, stronger and lighter than steel, versatile, and the weight and feel of it was so familiar in his hand. Just like home. 

He held it tight. Gods, he was homesick.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Don’t thank me. Thank her,” said Sera. “Look what she got me!” She produced a bottle from her pack. A viscous, dark red liquid swirled within along with orange licks of smoke and Lavellan recognised it right away. “It’s all sticky when it burns.”

“Creators, she gave you _Antivan fire_?”

“Heard you were dealing with icky dead things and icky dead things hate fire. Problem solved.”

In the space of a few short minutes, the camp bustled with activity from the arrivals. Vivienne stepped out of her carriage, squinting into the distance, robes immaculate as always with her intimidating horn-like hennins. 

“Such a waste,” she said and clicked her tongue. Lavellan’s gaze locked onto the swan carving she'd incorporated into the swirling head of her staff. Somehow. Magic, maybe? He looked back at Sera who had bounced her way over to annoy Blackwall, the honeycomb still tied around her quiver. Cassandra had her bear tied to the worn and faded pack she always carried with her to missions everywhere. Varric had the fox dangling from his quiver strap as usual.

They all had it on their person. Did they collectively plan this or did they all decide individually that they wanted to display it?

He turned away and grabbed the map of the Plains before his eyes could get teary.

They had work to do.

* * *

They reclaimed the eastern ramparts from the Freemen (it may or may not have involved Sera lobbing Antivan fire in utter glee and being scolded by Vivienne because the ramparts were constructed from _wood_ and were thus _flammable_ ), took down the barriers, and burned the bodies. Lavellan retrieved a letter from one of the Freemen leaders and scowled at its contents.

“What’ve you got there?” asked Dorian.

“This one, Gordian, was a Venatori,” said Lavellan, showed Dorian the letter. “Planted into the Orlesian army to start shit.”

“And another blighter falls. Truly a good day.”

“We’re not done. This is only a branch of the Freemen. The rest are in the Emerald Graves.”

“Are we going after them?”

Lavellan looked at the Inquisition’s forces and the Orlesian forces returning to retake the ramparts.

“Not yet,” he said. “Still things to do in the Plains.”

Lavellan threw Gordian’s body into the fire.

Bull fell into step beside them as they walked through the retaken ramparts. “Heard a few rumours at Skyhold. Guy called Fairbanks. Says he’s fighting for the refugees there or something. Pretty sure I picked up the Freemen mentioned there somewhere.”

Lavellan suppressed his smile. Fairbanks. Now there was a dependable man.

“We’ll keep an ear out,” said Lavellan.

More Orlesian soldiers returned. He spoke with a few of them, nodded and accepted their gratitude, and walked out feeling as if hands were dragging over his skin.

A few of them had looked at Lavellan like…

He shuddered and hugged himself..

Lavellan walked to somewhere with fresh air. Not that there was any nearby. Death and smoke and decay had blanketed the place, thicker than the Veil which had thinned from seeing so much death and violence. He was a bag of aches from the fight. 

He found himself by the riverbank. Solas was already there, staring off into the distance with the wind swaying the wolves on his staff. Lavellan stopped, contemplated walking back, but Solas had already noticed his arrival.

A tense silence hung between them.

“Did you need something?” Solas finally asked.

“No,” said Lavellan. “I just wanted to clear my head. I’m used to stares but a few of the Orlesian soldiers look at me like I’m a fuck toy or a floor scrubber. Sometimes both. And I don’t care for that shit at all.”

Solas' disposition darkened and an edge crept into his voice when he asked, “Would you like me to speak with them?”

“You’re an elf too, Solas,” Lavellan reminded.

“They won’t know that.”

Lavellan frowned. “What?”

“Nothing disturbs one more than a vivid and visceral dream,” he said, eyes flickering with promise. “I am not in the habit of imparting nightmares, but I can make exceptions.”

Lavellan stared at Solas, brows raised slightly. “You can do that?”

“I need not do much. The mind does the rest and the Fade willingly follows. The correct nudge will have them waking in a fit of terror.”

“No, don’t.” He shook his head. “I suspect they’ll have nightmares of their own with or without your interference what with the undead and the war. Go do something nicer for yourself when you dream.”

“Ever so merciful,” he muttered and turned away.

Another tense, hostile silence.

Lavellan crossed his arms. “Right, this has got to stop.”

“What?”

“This… Whatever this hostility is. Are you still angry about Cole?”

Solas stayed quiet, Lavellan watched the back of his head.

“I am not,” Solas finally said. “I merely failed to realise you were an expert on spirits and their nature as well! Imagine my surprise.”

“I am trying to hold a constructive and civil discussion with you,” snapped Lavellan. “Is that something you can manage, Solas? Or would you prefer to devolve back into snide remarks and _crude insults_ as you put them? Because I can manage just fine with either.”

His grip on the staff tightened, but he did hang his head and the rigid tension in his shoulders slacked. He faced Lavellan, exhaustion pulling at his face. “No,” he said. “Ir abelas, lethallin. I would also like to resolve this calmly.”

Lavellan nodded. “Thank you. Now tell me what’s gotten you so upset about how I handled the situation with Cole.”

“What use is my knowledge if you will not listen to it?” he asked but it wasn’t accusatory.

“You thought I didn’t listen?” asked Lavellan. “Solas, I wasn't setting out to claim mastery over your field. And I _did_ listen. I listened to you and Varric, and I would’ve gladly explained my train of thought with you both but Cole was sort of on a warpath. By the time I would’ve explained it, that Templar would've been dead.”

Solas’ expression strained and Lavellan frowned further.

“No, that’s not quite why you’re upset,” Lavellan mumbled. “Solas, I’m not Cole. I can’t read your mind. You have to work with me here.”

“I—” He rubbed a hand down his face, curbed his tone from rising in pitch again. “I am trying. Talk me through your train of thought then. Perhaps that will help.”

“Okay, well… It’s just— Both of your responses seemed a little extreme. Cole can’t be human. He isn’t human, and we can’t force him to be. But you wanted him to forget about Cole? Not everything can be solved by tearing it down and beginning anew.” Solas turned away to hide his grimace but Lavellan caught it anyway. “Cole is unique, you said so yourself, so we had to take that into consideration. His situation is different. We can’t treat him like the average spirit from the Fade because his experience has changed him. He’s closer to understanding the fundamental differences of the Fade and the waking world than most spirits.”

“But how could you have known that your methods would have helped?” asked Solas. “How could you have known that it wouldn’t have hurt Cole?”

“It’s not _my_ method. I just reminded Cole that things aren’t as clear cut as they might initially appear, and I left the choice up to him. Forget or not forget? Who knows? Not spirits, and certainly not us. Nobody knows how anything will go.” Lavellan looked down and scuffed his shoes on the pebbles. “And if I saw I was hurting Cole, I would’ve called on you and Varric immediately. But I just _know_ he was capable of so much more. Compassion shouldn’t forget Cole. Not when he played a huge part in influencing Compassion’s nature.”

Solas stared again, scrutinised Lavellan.

“I've walked a path a thousand times and more,” he started and Lavellan blinked. “Knew every stone along the way, every blade of grass, the exact distance between the trees, yet one day I notice a small flower. Has it always been there and I merely failed to see it? Or was it a new addition? If so, who has placed it there? When? And how? Whichever the answer, it is still startling.”

…What? “I think you’ve been spending a little too much time with Cole.”

Solas sighed. “I am saying that you are the change in the path. It is… a different approach, one which has either existed beforehand and I failed to realise its presence, or one you have introduced. I have to wonder at the implications of either.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Unlike you, Inquisitor, I am not unflappable in the face of world-changing information.”

“It’s nice to see my pretence of calm has fooled you. Creators forbid you hear the screaming in my head.” Because it was terribly loud. His face softened. “Was it really that world-changing?”

“You yourself are,” he murmured. “The very moment you stepped out of the Fade.”

Lavellan smiled wryly. “The first or the second time?”

“Both.” A brief flash of horror and regret in his eyes and Lavellan knew he was recalling the visions. He glanced away. “But that is no excuse for my appalling behaviour.”

“No, it’s not,” agreed Lavellan.

Solas looked down in remorse. “I am sorry,” he said.

Lavellan needed a tally for ‘How many times Solas apologised’ right next to another tally for ‘The times his apologies meant jackshit because he did it again or did something worse’. He suspected the numbers would be almost equal.

“I’m Dalish, Solas. I treasure deeds over words.”

“What would you have me do to prove the sincerity of my remorse?”

“Work on not being an asshole?” He turned. “You’re self-aware enough to know when you’re being disrespectful. You claim to respect me, but you go ahead and do the opposite. Why should I believe you’re truly remorseful? You haven’t given me much reason to.”

To that, Solas had no answer and Lavellan walked away. Let him chew on that.

But before he could leave, Solas called out, “Inquisitor,” and Lavellan stopped, looked at him over his shoulder. Solas frowned at him but the way his brows pulled suggested worry over displeasure. “Are you… Are you well?”

“Is anyone?” Lavellan asked.

“If you ever feel unwell, tell someone.”

He pursed his lips and nodded, turned his head again, but he paused, deliberating over his next words.

“Thank you for carrying me to my quarters,” said Lavellan.

Solas’ stare prickled on his back as he watched Lavellan go.

* * *

Over the week, the Inquisition worked on repairing the bridge while Lavellan and his team reclaimed the Victory Rise ramparts and burned the pits and reclaimed the Riverside Garrison.

Lavellan was also coming dangerously close to stabbing the eyes and cutting out the tongues of a few soldiers for their leers and whispers that weren’t as subtle as they thought.

 _“Did you see that knife-ear leading the Inquisition?_ Very _easy on the eyes.”_

_“They say he’s touched. I’ll say. If I were the Maker, I’d be touching that too.”_

_“Heard those Dalish can go all night. Might even bite. Should muzzle him.”_

“Fucking pigs,” Lavellan muttered and Vergala cawed in agreement on his shoulder. They returned to the Inquisition camp. Far, _far_ away from the ramparts. This was what the slaves of Orlais and Tevinter had to put up with daily and often worse. Not even seen as people. 

“You alright, Mercy?” Bull asked upon his return.

“Orlesians being pigs. Nothing new. Hey, if they want to talk diplomatic stuff again, I don’t want to go,” he said. “Sic Cassandra on them.”

Cassandra was by the fire sharpening her sword and she glanced up, wrist flicking sharp on a stroke.

“Gladly,” she said.

“I know a good electric spell," said Dorian. "Will absolutely render their testicles useless henceforth."

“Tempting,” said Lavellan. This was reminding him of his time in Tevinter, but it had been worse then. No position as Inquisitor to help him, and plenty of reasons for some of the nobility to hate or covet him. Or both. Dorian and Maevaris’ protection hadn’t been enough. If it weren’t for Solas and his agents’ intervention during that one soirée where Lavellan had been either drugged or poisoned, he would have been dead or worse.

His skin crawled. He hugged himself. “How long are we supposed to stay here?” he mumbled.

“It shouldn’t be long now, darling,” said Vivienne. “Once we have regained contact with the Empress’ forces past the bridge, we will return.” Her gaze turned steely. “As for speaking with the Orlesian forces, allow me to address them as well.” 

Lavellan nodded. “You’d absolutely terrify them. That would be great.”

She smiled. 

He grabbed his ironbark bow from his tent and slung his quiver over his back. 

“I’m going to roam the forest. Clear my head,” he said. Before he shot a chevalier in the neck. “Am I going to get roasted over the fire if I decide I don’t actually want to interact with the Orlesian soldiers anymore?”

“You are the Inquisitor,” said Solas. “You need only say the word.”

Lavellan squinted at him. Was that a dig? Solas frowned at his suspicious look.

“That was not an insult, Inquisitor.” He stood. “But allow me to accompany you. I do not enjoy the idea of you traipsing through the woods alone, not with the danger of unsealed rifts.”

He huffed. “You’re babysitting me.”

“Only if you prove yourself a child.”

Dorian dusted his hands off and stood as well. “I’ll come!” he chirped. “I would like a change of scenery.”

“Hell, maybe I’ll come too,” said Bull.

“Well if you three are coming, we may as well actively look for and seal rifts.”

“When I said change of scenery, I didn’t think that involved demons,” Dorian sighed.

Lavellan patted him on the back and they set off. Despite the demons, the forest did clear his head. Truthfully, Lavellan was searching for Keeper Hawen’s clan nearby. Clan… what was it again? Clan Venalin? Look, he was homesick, alright? Especially amidst all these Orlesians and their Maker-forsaken civil war.

His mind returned to worrying about Clan Lavellan and he gripped the bow tighter.

Dorian and Solas happily (or at least, civilly) chattered about magical theory ahead of them. Bull's lost look grew the more jargon they threw about before he gave up altogether with a grunt and a grumble and slowed so he could walk beside Lavellan.

“Had fun?” Lavellan asked.

“Something, something, ambient, Fade, Veil. Bah! Dalish makes it sound so simple.” He mimicked her voice but again, he sucked at impressions. “ _I pull, it glows, then it explodes!_ ” He blinked. “She’s talking about archery, by the way.”

Lavellan smiled. “Yeah, it’s an old elven trick, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Exactly.”

Lavellan chuckled, but his smile gradually faded as he eyed Bull. “You and Dorian tagged along to make sure Solas and I wouldn’t start arguing, didn’t you?”

“Saw through it, huh?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Nah.” Bull ducked from a low branch. “Wanna talk about it?”

“…It’s complicated.”

He winced. “Ohh shit, you’re using _that_ tone.”

“What?” Lavellan blinked. “What tone?”

All Bull did was pat Lavellan’s shoulder. Lavellan was about to ask but—

“If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today,” said Solas.

“I…” Dorian gripped his staff tighter. “Don’t know that I can do that.”

“Then how sorry are you?

Lavellan shared a look with Bull.

“Well,” said Lavellan, “it’s not me he’s arguing with. Mission accomplished for you.”

Bull grimaced. A tense silence descended over the party.

“So, Mercy!” said Bull, dispelling the sudden quiet. An attempt to make things less awkward. “Been meaning to ask but you don’t have a dominant hand, do you?”

Lavellan went with it because he’d had his fill of cold, hostile silence for the week. “I do,” he said. “Right, but I’ve been trained to use both. Daggers and all. Still, I instinctively use my right.”

“Yeah, but you swap hands with your bow sometimes.”

“My left hand’s usually more dextrous when it comes to archery, but I swap when the Anchor hurts.”

“The Dalish do it by hand dexterity too? Yeah, heard the ‘Vints and Antivans do that. Most people go by the dominant eye.” 

“Be honest, are you trying to balance all the magical theory talk from earlier with archery talk?”

Dorian looked back with an amused smile at least. Small mercies. Bull grunted.

“Listen, I know a lot of things about the weirdest topics. But _that_ , I don’t understand. Unless you got it too?”

Lavellan laughed. “No. I know some things about the Fade and the Veil, but not the intricacies of manipulating it. I’m no mage. No matter how many times my sister talks at me about magical theory.”

“There’s a lot of places for crap to go wrong,” Bull grumbled. 

“Don’t fret you hulking oaf,” said Dorian. “If I’m going to spontaneously combust, I’ll make sure to do it near you.”

“You’re not cute.”

“I believe the term you were looking for is gorgeous.” Dorian waved a hand. “The only gorgeous thing for miles. Although, I suppose the Inquisitor _could_ count,” he teased.

Lavellan clicked his tongue. “Wrong adjective for me, Dorian.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Feral.”

“Better,” he said, feigned swooning.

Solas knocked aside a fallen branch in the way with more force than seemed warranted.

Vergala cawed twice above them, followed by a sharp cry and the familiar shriek of a demon. They shared a single look before they sprinted to the source of the sound and there, they stumbled upon a band of Dalish elves fending off demons and undead, defending a small aravel filled with supplies. 

When he said he wanted to meet Clan Venalin, this was _not_ what he had in mind.

“Dorian, barrier on the Dalish, focus on protecting them. Solas, on us. Let’s go, Bull.”

They charged into the flank of demons. “On dhea’him[1]!” Lavellan greeted the surprised Dalish hunters and swiftly took care of the demons and undead.

“Ma serannas[2], da’len,” said the hunter. He was old. Too old to still be in a hunting party since most of them retired after fifty, yet the other hunters with him were in their youth, some not even marked with the vallaslin yet. This was also not a large enough group to properly constitute as a hunting party. “It is relieving to find a fellow Dalish here. I am Olafin of Clan Venalin. Is your clan nearby?” He eyed Lavellan’s companions as they reconvened. Some of the Dalish hunters stayed back, wary eyes trained on them, hands still hovering over their weapons.

“No hahren, I’m far from my clan,” said Lavellan. “I am Mahanon of Clan Lavellan.”

“Lavellan,” said Olafin, adopting a slight tone of respect. The Lavellan name carried weight as one of the oldest clans with a substantial amount of retrieved lore, and they produced some of the best fighters. No pressure on him or anything. Although, that wasn’t his largest concern anymore, was it?

Now he had a world to look after and an army to lead.

“You keep interesting company, da’len,” said Olafin. Lavellan prayed to any deity that would listen for Solas to behave.

“In truth, I belong to an organisation called the Inquisition,” said Lavellan. “We came here to help with the demons and the undead, and to ease the damage from the civil war. Where are you headed, hahren? I assumed this was a hunting party but…”

Olafin shook his head. “Our Keeper sent us to find safe passage through the Exalted Plains to rejoin the rest of our clan near the Emerald Graves.”

“Hahren,” hissed one of the younger hunters. A dark-haired adolescent girl who carried hunting gear and yet bore no vallaslin which meant she couldn’t have been older than fifteen. “Why are you telling this stranger so much? He cannot be trusted! He keeps peculiar company!”

Solas snorted softly behind him.

“Hush, Revasha,” Olafin said. “He and his company saved our lives.”

“We could have handled them ourselves!”

“Ah, youth,” murmured Dorian.

“Ir abelas, da’len,” said Lavellan. “It was not our intention to spoil your victory.”

She glared at him. “Don’t call me that.”

Lavellan resisted sighing. “Alright. Well, we could escort you across the Plains―”

“We don’t need your help,” snapped Revasha.

“Revasha!” Olafin scolded.

“He carries the vallaslin and yet he is garbed in the armour of the shems,” protested Revasha. The other hunters looked at each other and nodded. Hm, it seemed she was their leader. Leader in the making at the very least. No good. Too hot-headed. “How do we know he’s who he says he is? He could be Harellan[3].” 

Ouch.

“You’re right to be wary,” said Lavellan. “But sincerely, we’re here to help. If you’d rather make your way across the Plains by yourself, that’s alright. It should be relatively safer now.”

“It will never be safe so long as the shemlens are here,” said Revasha.

“She has a point,” said Dorian. “The Orlesian forces are behaving but it could be dangerous if they see a Dalish band travelling along.”

“Would you like us to provide an escort for you, then?” asked Lavellan. “Otherwise, we could point you to a safe passage.”

Olafin shook his head. “Ah, no, that won’t be necessary, thank you. We have already plotted our course and if what you say is true, then it should be safer for travel.” He paused. “But perhaps you could aid our Keeper and a few of ours with him. Our aravel sail has torn and one of our halla was injured. The aravel is filled with our crafting supplies. Without it, I fear the clan will suffer.”

“What are you doing?” hissed Revasha. “You’re leading them right to the Keeper!”

“Keeper Hawen can look after himself.” Olafin frowned at her. “Watch your tone, Revasha.”

At least she bowed her head. “Ir abelas, hahren.”

“A thousand apologies for this young one,” said Olafin. 

“No harm, I understand her reservations,” said Lavellan and nodded. “I’ll offer help, but if the Keeper spurns it, there’s not much we can do.”

“That’s all I ask for, da’len. Now then, we must be going.”

“Dareth shiral,” said Lavellan.

Olafin gave him directions to the Keeper Hawen before his band went ahead, Revasha shooting them a venomous glare over her shoulder along the way. They disappeared past the trees. 

Lavellan threw his head back and finally allowed himself a sigh. 

Dorian chuckled. “Are all Dalish youths that spirited?”

“No, but there’s always one.” He recalled Aenoreir and a smile tugged at his lips. “Though they’re so much more tolerable when you’re at least around the same age.”

“I expect suspicious is the more apt descriptor,” said Solas. “She was the perfect epitome of Dalish paranoia.”

“Remember that talk we had about not being an ass?” Lavellan asked. “This is not a very good start.”

Solas at least had the good grace to look chastened.

They reached the small stream and Lavellan stopped by the banks of it, stared at the fragments of Clan Venalin on the other side, a sharp shuddering breath stuttering into his lungs. It was such a simple sight. They were just aravel sails. And yet, the homesickness plucked at him.

“You alright, Mercy?” asked Bull.

He snapped out of it. “Yeah, just… Just a bit homesick. Bet you’re all feeling pretty homesick too, huh?”

“Quite,” Dorian sighed.

“Home’s with my boys. I’m good for now,” said Bull with a fond smile.

Solas stayed quiet, a faraway look in his eyes. Lavellan already knew he was reassembling his precious, broken empire in his mind’s eye as his gaze raked across the Plains. Lavellan tried not to let that sadden him. 

Lavellan wasn’t sure which part of it saddened him. The lost empire or the lost elf.

He crossed the stream using the outcrop of rocks. The Dalish group sequestered here was a small unit with one large aravel and four smaller ones, and he spotted the torn sail and the injured halla being tended to by the Halla Keeper. He gestured for his party to hang back and slowly approached. Didn’t want a repeat like with Revasha.

The Dalish glanced up at him, frowned in apprehension, but relaxed somewhat when they saw his vallaslin. Lavellan noted one of them was pregnant and his worry increased exponentially.

An elderly man stepped forward. Keeper Hawen.

Lavellan bowed his head in deference.

“Andaran atish’an, da’len,” greeted Keeper Hawen, keen eyes scanning Lavellan. 

“Hahren,” he returned. “Forgive the intrusion. I met your hunters in the forests and helped them fight off demons. Olafin requested that I offer you our assistance.”

“Will you introduce yourself, da’len?”

“I am Mahanon of Clan Lavellan, though I am far from them right now.”

“Lavellan,” said Keeper Hawen. Again, a name easily recognised. “Your Keeper is still Istimaethoriel?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

Lavellan smiled. “Last I saw, still terrifying the young ones.”

“Why are you not with them?”

“They sent me to spy on the Conclave that the humans were arranging. I assume you heard the rest.”

His eyes widened. “So it is true. _You_ are the one they hail as the prophet of their god.”

“Not through any choice of mine,” said Lavellan.

“Yet we would not have even known you were Dalish if not for your vallaslin.” His eyes saddened. “Are we still your people, da’len?”

Lavellan sucked in a breath, swallowed the sting. “Of course,” he said, did his best to keep his voice from trembling. He understood why Keeper Hawen would ask that, knew he’d react similarly in the same position, but it didn’t lessen the sudden alienation. Different from the humans because he was an elf, different from the Dalish because he acted too human. “But I know you respect deeds over words. What can we do for Clan Venalin then? As a show of good faith?”

He eyed Lavellan’s companions. “We?” he asked.

“They are members of the Inquisition,” said Lavellan. “They will help if I ask.”

Keeper Hawen thought on this, before he sighed. “Very well. I see you are sincere. We lost a few of our own from aggressive shemlens and we wished to lay them to rest at Var Bellanaris, but it has been infested with demons.”

Lavellan nodded. “We’ll clear them out.”

“If you wish, you may speak with the Craftmaster and Halla Keeper and ask if they require any assistance.” He nodded at Lavellan’s companions. “Introduce us.”

Lavellan gestured them forward to introduce them and Keeper Hawen gave them a polite smile. After the introductions and offering their assistance to the Craftmaster and Halla Keeper, they set to work. Lavellan rubbed his thumb over the surface of his ironbark bow as they walked to Var Bellanaris.

“Everything alright, Mercy?”

“I’m worried, is all.”

Solas frowned at him. “If I may hazard a guess, you were met with hesitation and distrust.”

“Have you turned your hawk-eyed gaze towards me?” mocked Lavellan, an echo of his sentiments the other week. “Staring deep into my soul?”

“You are only confirming my suspicions.”

“If you’re going to be a smug bastard about it, now is _not_ the time.”

His mouth pulled. “You seem to always expect the worst of me.”

“It saves time.”

“Wow, look at that!” interrupted Dorian with forced exuberance. “Quite the lovely river in the distance!”

Bull covered his face. “You,” he muttered, “have _no_ finesse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always headcanon that the Dalish clan we meet in the Exalted Plains is only a fragment and that the rest are off somewhere else. Also went and gave them a name because we'll be dealing with the rest of them later and it'd be awkward just referring to them as "Keeper Hawen's clan" or something.
> 
> Also, I double-checked the size of the red-crested ravens in the game and Maker, they're massive. They're almost the size of Lavellan's TORSO what the fuck, they come up to his KNEES. I'm not sure if that's just scaling gone weird or if they're really that big but damn. 
> 
> I've written a few side pieces for this fic, most of them in Solas' POV, and I'll be posting them here if I think they're halfway decent wahaha -> [A tapestry of stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964/chapters/63440221)
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **On dhea'him:** Good afternoon.[⇧]  
> [2] **Ma serannas:** Thank you.[⇧]  
> [3] **Harellan:** Traitor to one’s kin. The Dalish use this to call someone who deserted or was excommunicated from their clan for whatever reason.[⇧]


	34. Auroras in our moonlit chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you really out here dropping comments that make me explode in a shower of hearts, huh? <3

watch for his teeth, little sun—

* * *

Lavellan and his group headed for Var Bellanaris and cleared it of the demons. Minor ones for them, but no doubt formidable for Keeper Hawen and his small group alone. Lavellan wanted them mobilised as soon as possible. They were out in the open and some part of him itched at that, disliked the vulnerability of it, too used to being safe under the cover of trees. 

Before they left, he stopped and bowed his head, stood in silence for a moment to honour those who passed. Elvhen and Dalish alike.

“There, they should be able to bury their dead again,” said Lavellan.

“Should we go in?” asked Dorian. “There may still be demons inside.”

“No,” said Lavellan. “That would desecrate the place. Besides, nobody enters anymore. The key’s been lost so even if there were demons inside, it’s unlikely they’ll hurt anyone.”

They left and searched for Hanal’ghilan, found her by the riverbank, glimmering against the stark setting of the Plains with her sunlit coat and burnished horns. She looked up, dark eyes intelligent and aware. Lavellan set his weapons down.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Someone please pick those up for me.” 

He approached the halla with care, crouched low, hands held out to show they were empty and to eliminate how much of a threat he seemed. She backed away. He stopped his approach, cast his eyes down for a second before meeting her gaze once more.

“Hanal’ghilan,” he greeted. “They call me Mahanon. There is a clan nearby. Clan Venalin. You will be safe there.”

She stared at him.

Lavellan looked skywards, called for Vergala in his mind, and she came swooping down, resting on his shoulders. The halla startled and took a few more steps back.

“It’s alright,” he reassured. “Vergala, a little help here?” All he knew about calming wild halla were from what he learned from their Halla Keeper.

_“Speak to them calmly and articulately. They understand more than you know. Be polite, respectful. They are not pets, Mahanon, they are companions.”_

She cawed at the halla. Hanal’ghilan tilted her head, took a tentative step forward and another and Lavellan beamed. He held his hand out. She pressed her head to it and he bowed his head again, eyes widening when she pushed further and pressed her head against his forehead. Lavellan used to do this with his halla before hunts. She was stubborn and playful, but she always carried him fast and true. He missed her.

Hanal’ghilan nudged at him as if in sympathy, and once again, homesickness pressed at him. Horses were good too, but he could never make the same connection with them, could never coordinate with them as well as he could with his halla.

“Ane’th[1],” he told her and gently held her head. “Come, it isn’t safe here.”

She closed her eyes and drew herself up to her full height, didn’t run even as Lavellan rested his hand on her back. They led her back to Clan Venalin while Vergala rested on his shoulders and he snorted. What a picture the three of them must make. When he returned, Ithiren thanked him profusely and Hanal’ghilan joined the other halla without fuss.

Ithiren eyed Vergala. “You have a friend,” he noted. “A few hunters often use hawks to aid in hunting, or other birds of prey, but red-crests are a strange choice. They are far more interested in playing.”

“Oh, no, I haven't had her for long. I rescued her when she broke her wing and I let her go after she healed, but she chose to stay.” Though he suspected he had a deeper connection with her. Vergala butted her head against his cheek affectionately. 

Ithiren smiled, regarding his vallaslin. “Perhaps it’s Dirthamen’s way of saying he is watching over you, keeping you safe.”

Lavellan stilled.

He forced himself to smile back and say, “Maybe so.”

While he waited for his group to catch up, he glanced at Vergala and she blinked back, clicked her beak at him.

“Did Dirthamen send you?” he teased. She squawked at him, feathers ruffling in affront, and she pecked the top of his head. “Ow! Okay, stop— Ow.”

Solas passed him his weapons when they caught up, provided zero help whatsoever in fending off Vergala's attack. Ass had the gall to stand there and look amused.

“What have you done now?” Solas asked.

“Nothing! I take it back! I take it back!”

Vergala settled, preened herself as if she didn’t just try to riddle the top of his skull with holes. Lavellan scowled and put his weapons back.

“I’ll roast you,” he threatened.

“Lavellan slow,” she taunted.

He grabbed her. Attempted to. She flew off and cawed in mockery. Lavellan huffed.

“Unfair,” he grumbled.

Solas smiled. “In any case, well done with Hanal’ghilan.” He appraised Lavellan. “You seemed… wistful when you led her back.”

Lavellan shook his head, cast Ithiren’s comment aside. “It just made me miss my halla.”

“Is Clan Lavellan in the practice of riding them?”

“Depends on how many halla we have. During hunts, we ask a few of the halla if we could ride them. Sometimes a hunter bonds with one and it might start refusing to pull the aravels.” He laughed. “That was the case with mine. It always takes some coaxing to ask her and even then, she only pulls my family’s aravel. She was difficult sometimes but I always loved hunting with her. You should have seen how fast she was.”

“What was her name?” asked Solas.

“Don’t laugh.”

“Go on.”

Lavellan hesitated, made a face. “Halhal.”

Solas kept a straight face but the corner of his lips twitched.

“I said don’t laugh.”

“I was not.”

Lavellan looked at him, unconvinced, before he turned and returned to Keeper Hawen.

“Var Bellanaris is cleared, hahren,” he reported. Keeper Hawen smiled and nodded his gratitude. 

They stayed until late afternoon and assisted them with other matters. Bull helped cart off the dead to Var Bellanaris, Lavellan taught Dorian how to mend the aravel sail once Anaria, who was close to nine months pregnant, complained of backaches, and Solas tended to the injured halla while holding a discussion with Keeper Hawen. Lavellan kept an eye on that conversation. Both seemed tense. Regardless, they pressed on, and the tension dissipated the more they spoke.

When dusk approached, Lavellan promised to return the next day to continue helping them and they followed the river back to camp.

“You spoke with Keeper Hawen for a while,” Lavellan said on the way back, wary. 

Solas hummed. “Yes. I had mentioned I was a Dreamer. He inquired if I'd encountered any memories of the Elvhen that they did not know.”

“And?” Lavellan asked. 

“I… spoke of the Elvhen settlement which once stood here.”

“Good talk?”

“Somewhat, I suppose,” said Solas, sullen. Lavellan pursed his lips, waited for him to make a comment about the Dalish that was certain to set them off again, but it never came.

They neared camp, but the sound of bickering reached his ears and he shared a concerned look with his companions.

It was Sera and Vivienne. Lavellan sighed. Varric stayed well out of line of fire while Blackwall huddled with him, glanced nervously between Sera and Vivienne. Cassandra sat there nursing a headache. Cole was by the river edge, away from the fighting.

“What’s going on?” Lavellan asked.

Sera looked up with a huff and Vivienne narrowed her eyes at her.

“This fool lost us our meal rations with her short-sightedness and ill temper,” she said.

“Oh yeah, friggin’ shove the blame at my feet, all prim and proper you are,” Sera hissed, pointed an accusing finger at her.

“What do you mean we lost our meal rations? Start from the beginning.”

“We were transferring supplies when a pack of wolves accosted our carts,” said Vivienne. “My casting missed because unlike you, Inquisitor, she has no regard for her surroundings when she abuses her elemental flasks. I almost suffered a burn.”

“Oh come off it, you meant to hit me!”

“Dear, I may adore your sound contributions so much so that I would love to see you thrown into the river, but I have enough self-restraint and control to refrain from injuring our own.”

Lavellan massaged his temples. “And the lost rations?”

“Her stupid magic made me drop my stupid bow and some stupid wolf was gonna nom on her poncy arse. Couldn’t shoot it. So I threw meat at it. Say thank you, Vivvy.”

“I will not thank you for a poor tactical choice. Nor will I entertain what thoughts you have about my inclination for sabotage.”

“So we have no food,” said Lavellan.

“Pretty much,” said Varric. “No game for miles either. War’s chased them away. If not that, then the wolves got to them.”

Lavellan glanced at the river. “Have you checked if there’s fish?”

“There is,” said Cole, materialising by the campfire. Blackwall jumped and Sera shrieked. Vivienne pulled her lips in annoyance at the sound.

“Well there we go.” Lavellan dug around one of the carts they'd managed to bring over and took out the fishing spears and weighted net. “Set the fire up. I’ll see if I can get us some fish.”

“I quite enjoyed learning how to mend your sails earlier,” said Dorian. “Do you mind if I ask for fishing lessons?”

“Not at all. But we have to do it quick before the light fades. Any experience?” They walked towards the riverbank.

“With a line,” said Dorian. “Although, I was twelve when I last went fishing.”

Dorian was a quick study. After missing for a solid half-hour, he speared his first fish and crowed when he held it up and placed it in the basket. He promptly slipped and fell into the water. Lavellan leaned on the spear and grinned down at him and his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Iron Bull’s laughter echoed faintly from camp. Dorian grumbled.

“I just chased the fish away, didn’t I?” Dorian asked.

“Sort of. But it’s alright. I think we’ll have enough for everyone tonight.”

“You caught five in the time it took me to catch one,” laughed Dorian and Lavellan helped him up.

“You caught one within thirty minutes of learning. I’d say that’s decent. I’ve just been doing this for a while, is all. One of my hunters, Iranae? She’s damn good at spearfishing. She’s just good with a spear in general.”

Dorian smiled at him. “You really miss them, don’t you?”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say,” said Lavellan. “Things were simpler then.”

“It must have been quite the leap. From providing food to… well, _this_.”

Lavellan shrugged. He’d been doing _this_ for six years. That was longer than the time he'd spent as a Warleader. Sad that he was more accustomed to leading an army than leading a hunting party, but still, providing food for his companions while they were out during their campaigns helped simulate home. A normalcy amidst the strange things happening to him.

“It’s not so bad,” said Lavellan, shot Dorian a cheeky grin. “I get to watch my friends slip and fall in rivers after catching fish.

“Terrible, you.”

“Come on, I’ll show you how to gut them without making a giant mess.”

They sat by the banks and Lavellan talked him through the process, laughed at Dorian’s disgusted face, and for a moment, he could pretend they were as close as they had been in his past life. They were getting there. Still, it was somewhat imbalanced on Lavellan’s part since he could read Dorian perfectly and Dorian then had been able to read Lavellan in turn, but now that wasn’t the case. Sometimes Lavellan just wanted to _look_ at him and Dorian would know what was wrong. He always knew what would cheer Lavellan up.

After they cleaned the fish and wrapped them, ready to take back to camp, Dorian regarded Lavellan as they washed the smell off their hands.

“So, what’s wrong?” he asked.

Lavellan blinked. “What?”

“This strange hostility between you and Solas. It isn’t from anger, that I’m certain.”

“Oh, you’re certain, are you?” So this was the true objective of the fishing lessons.

“I’m not presuming to know you, but I know a hurt look hiding behind anger when I see it. It’s on _both_ your faces, although Solas was a little harder to tell.” He dried his hands and closed the fish basket, patted the lid. “You’re under no obligation to tell me, of course! Merely worried, is all.”

Lavellan wrung excess water from his shirt. “I’m sorry, it’s poor manners to argue in front of everyone and it makes you all uncomfortable. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure this doesn’t affect our missions.”

Dorian sighed. “Inquisitor, I was talking about _you_. I’m worried about you. Disagreements within a group of people? Quite inevitable. But whatever disagreement you have with Solas, it’s clearly hitting harder.” He laid a gentle hand on Lavellan’s arm. “I may be hopeless at fishing, but I wouldn’t extend the same courtesy to being blind to when my dear friends are upset.”

“I’m a dear friend?” teased Lavellan.

“Obviously,” said Dorian as if he were announcing that Orlais was an empire. His expression softened. “But I meant it. I’m listening, if you’d like to tell me about it.”

He fixed his stare on the river’s surface, before it fell on the large wolf statue atop the tall hill across the river which overlooked most of the Plains. Lavellan never knew how to reach it. He recalled exploring and climbing and searching for hidden passages in his past life to no avail. Solas had smiled at him in amusement then.

_“Come down before you hurt yourself,” he said._

_“I will climb that giant wolf statue or so help me gods!” Lavellan declared._

_“Is there a reason for this sudden obsession?”_

_“You don’t need a reason to want to climb a tall thing.”_

_“Ah. The pursuit of the unattainable.”_

_Lavellan looked down at him, unamused. “It’s not unattainable.”_

_“No?” He tilted his head, smiling. “You are free to climb me. I am much more attainable, and within easy reach.”_

The asshole knew _exactly_ what he was talking about. Still, he smiled faintly at the memory, found his gaze drawn back to camp where Solas was conversing with Cassandra. Lavellan glanced away just as Solas looked up. His smile faded.

Dorian stared at him.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Lavellan scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Maker, you two are even starting to sound like each other.”

“I didn’t realise ‘I beg your pardon’ was limited to Solas.”

“Not the words themselves, you see. Rather, how you say them.” He grinned. “And when did I mention Solas?”

Lavellan paused, then looked away pointedly with an unamused twist to his lips. Dorian sighed, placed the fish baskets aside and sat by the banks, patted the spot beside him. Lavellan contemplated leaving.

He sat instead, pulled his legs to his chest and rested his chin on his knees.

“Does he make you happy?” Dorian asked.

Happy? 

Of course he did. For a while. He'd been the shelter in the storm, a safe space, a quiet space ― gentle amidst the screaming world. Then turned out he was the one who'd caused the screaming in the first place. Solas had ripped apart the shelter with an undoing violence and a grieving apology.

Lavellan didn’t want his fucking apology. He wanted his head on a pike, his heart crushed in Lavellan’s hands.

_No, you don’t._

“It’s complicated,” Lavellan finally answered. How sorely he wished to divulge everything so somebody could tell him what to do for once.

Sadness lingered in Dorian’s eyes and Lavellan almost snapped at him to get that look off his face, but he knew it wasn’t Dorian he was angry at, not really. He was angry in general. At the world? The hand it had dealt him? Why did Solas have to be Fen’Harel and why did Lavellan have to be the Inquisitor? Couldn’t they have just stayed as Solas and Lavellan? Just them. So they could love in the middle of the chaos, care in the spaces of the flames.

“You’re not planning to do anything about it, are you?” asked Dorian.

“No,” said Lavellan. He clenched his hands, wrinkled the material of his pants. 

“But do you wish to? If Solas reciprocated, would you still reject him?”

“That would be wise,” said Lavellan.

Dorian kept staring. “That’s not an answer.”

It would be wise. Justified, even.

_Panted, blood-soaked. The fighting dulled in his ears and he moved, cut, tore, killed. He cut one down. Two. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Sea of dead bodies felled by his wrath. He bared his teeth, gnashed, but he kept his eyes trained on the figure in the distance. Anybody who stood in his way was dead. Flesh, blood, broken bone. A hurricane of slaughter._

_Solas wished to walk the path of death? Very well._ _Lavellan would cleave for him the path. The destination: them both._

_Painstaking, he reached him._

_“Hello, lover.”_

_Solas turned, eyes wearied, blood on his dirtied armour._

_“I come bearing gifts,” he continued and Solas’ eyes fell on the blighted blade in his hand. “I promise to aim for the heart."_

_"Will you slip past the ribs?” he asked, voice as heavy and dark as the rest of him._

_“I will break through them.”_

_“You cannot stand against me.”_

_“You’re right. But I don’t plan to just stand.”_

_Lavellan rushed forward._

He summoned his anger, his rage, remembered their final moments, the absolute wrath flooding his chest, called upon it so he could answer, “I'll say no,” but the words wouldn’t come. Shrivelled in his throat. No, didn’t even make it past his throat. It tangled in his chest and festered there.

_They danced beneath the stars, laughing and spinning and kissing. Tender caress, rough gasps. Burst at the seams, full of him and warm from him, around and beyond. Was this peace amidst war?_

_“Ar lath, ma vhenan.”_

_Morning woke them and Solas’ chest rose and fell like gentle waves upon a soft shore, heart a steady beat beneath him. Lavellan nestled into his warmth, traced the lines of his lips with his own._

His anger never answered. It fizzled. Gone and burnt.

He hung his head, defeated.

Dorian shuffled closer and gently bumped Lavellan’s shoulder with his.

“ _Aurum_ for your thoughts?” asked Dorian. “Or sovereigns. Whichever you’re more inclined to use.”

“Wouldn’t it be _aes_ for your thoughts?”

“Your thoughts are worth more than bronze, dear Inquisitor.”

He snorted. “You don’t want my thoughts, Dorian, believe me.” Too many screams and indiscernible whispers.

“I disagree,” he said, affable as always. “You have lovely thoughts. Like little bells. Sometimes, the bells are scary but what’s life without a smidgen of unease?”

That at least made Lavellan smile as he traced patterns into the soil with his finger. 

“What do you want?” Dorian asked.

Truth. Answers. Honesty. Luxuries neither he nor Solas could indulge in. 

“What I want doesn’t matter,” said Lavellan. “I can’t have them. That’s not how this works.”

Dorian arched a brow. “Pray tell, how does this work then?”

“I do what I can, I help who I can, make sure they'll be alright for the future, and then I die,” said Lavellan. 

“Vishante kaffas,” breathed Dorian and in hindsight, Lavellan probably should have softened the blow a little. “You _are_ allowed to think of yourself. You don’t have to live as if…” His expression turned concerned. “You don’t have to live as if you’re preparing to die.”

Lavellan smiled sadly. _Oh Dorian_ , he wished to say, _I’m already dead_.

Dorian gripped Lavellan’s shoulders, gaze fierce. “What you want matters. Of course it matters! You’re no charity bank. You don’t have to give all of yourself up just to help others.”

“They’ll take it anyway,” he said, still smiling. “I’ve come to terms with that a long time ago. They’ll take even what I’m not ready to give. Par for the course of this whole hero gig.”

“It doesn’t―!” Dorian let go before he severed Lavellan’s tendon from how hard he was gripping his shoulder. He shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be like that,” he finished softly. “You deserve better than that.”

“Maybe,” said Lavellan with a resigned shrug. “But it’s not what I’m getting.”

“No,” rejected Dorian with an air of finality.

Lavellan blinked at him. “No?” he echoed.

“No.” He pointed his finger at him. “You, good sir, will not waste away from the greedy hands of the masses. I will not allow it.”

“I happen to care for those masses.”

“You can’t care for the bloody masses when you’re dead in a ditch,” he fired back. “You don’t have to lose parts of yourself just to provide for them.” He grabbed Lavellan’s shoulder again. “What you want matters. _You_ matter. As a person. More than Inquisitor or a blasted prophet of an absent god. Your needs and feelings and wants and whims have priority and _you_ take priority. Must I start shaking you to convey the sentiment? Because I’ll do it. I’ll shake you.”

Lavellan could only stare at him with a dumbfounded look, taken aback by the vehemence of said sentiment.

“Say it with me. ‘I am important.’ Go on.”

“I don’t―”

“Say it. I’m not letting you go until you do.”

He sighed and went with it. “I am important,” he said.

“Again.”

Lavellan scowled. “I already said it.”

“Well then it shouldn’t be a dreadful struggle to repeat it!” Dorian shot him an infuriating smile. “Once more, from the top, with feeling.”

“I’ll shave your moustache in your sleep.”

“Not quite the words I’m looking for.”

Lavellan glanced back out at the river. The sky had dimmed, not quite a beautiful sunset because of the orange haze still covering the sky even after the fires have long abated.

“I am important,” he murmured. 

“I know it’s hard to believe at the moment,” said Dorian, “but keep saying it. Keep reminding yourself. You hold merit on your own. You are important as you are, whoever you choose to be. I mean that in terms of identity, by the way. Reprehensible megalomaniac is _not_ an identity trait, no matter what Corypheus says.”

He snorted. “I’m sure he’ll be devastated to hear that.”

Dorian let Lavellan go. Then pulled him into a firm hug. The position was somewhat awkward with his body twisted to the side and the slight ache in his hip from his leg being pulled strange but it… It was nice. Unexpected, but nice. Lavellan hadn’t realised how touch-starved he had been. He clung onto Dorian without meaning to.

“You are important, Mahanon,” said Dorian and maybe it was the usage of his name which did the trick, but the words finally hit him and pressure built behind his eyes. “To me, to Solas, to every single one of your lost little ducklings in Skyhold. Your wants and needs, they’re important.”

Dorian pulled back and Lavellan kept his gaze down, the space between his brows aching from holding back the tears.

“Please,” Dorian whispered. “Don’t live to die. Don’t die for us, for them.” Lavellan looked up, vision blurry, but he could still discern Dorian’s patient smile. “Live for us. With us. Yes? More preferable, no?”

“I don’t want to hope,” said Lavellan through the thickness of his throat. “It always gets taken from me.”

“If there’s anything I've learned while traipsing along with you and the causes you champion,” said Dorian who patted Lavellan’s knee, “it’s that hope can’t be taken. Not truly. It’s like a weed. It keeps coming back.” His expression softened and Lavellan wiped the tears before they could fall. “And most times, the hope you’ve inspired is a hope that people have fought for. They fought to get it. They fight to keep it.”

“I’m tired of fighting,” he muttered morosely then grimaced. “I’m sorry, I’m totally shitting on your parade here. You’re trying to encourage me and I’m―”

“Stop,” said Dorian. “This isn’t about me. You are perfectly entitled to feel exhausted.” He slung his arm around Lavellan, and they stayed in the quiet for a moment. Lavellan missed Dorian. So, so terribly. It wasn’t the same. 

That wasn’t so bad, was it?

 _Gods, I miss them_ , he thought wretchedly. He missed them all, his friends in the future. Past. Whatever. 

“But would you care to try?” asked Dorian. “Again? I know it’s dreary, but would you care for it again?”

Would he? Fight for hope and fight to keep it? Could he weather through that ordeal again?

Didn’t he ask Solas to try again, too? Lavellan laughed without humour and covered his eyes with his hand.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Ah, that’s not a no!” chirped Dorian. “We can certainly work with that.”

Lavellan smiled. “Have you always been such an optimist?”

“I can’t help it, it seems. Foolish of me, maybe.”

“Nah,” he murmured, turned nasally by his clogged nose. “It takes strength to keep going.”

Dorian looked at Lavellan as if he had missed something and failed to realise it. Lavellan frowned back.

“What?”

He merely sighed. “Maker, you’re thick.”

Lavellan had missed something, hadn't he? 

“Baby steps,” Dorian mumbled to himself. “I hope you find peace with whatever has you conflicted, and I hope you consider your personal happiness when you make your choice.”

“You know if it came down to my personal happiness or duty, I’ll always choose duty.” 

That gave him pause. Wasn’t that how Solas had made his choice too? The world had become real, and yet he'd still pursued whatever duty he believed he had to the People at the cost of everyone and himself. So were Lavellan’s efforts for naught after all? It wouldn’t matter if they became real to Solas. He would push on, with great regret in his heart, and once again, it would be the two of them facing off as the sky fell and the earth burned. Lavellan would still be the fool cradling his shattered, battered heart at the end of it.

Spirit of Change. He had to scoff. What could he do? He was powerless.

“I know,” murmured Dorian. “And there’s no easy answer to it. But all I ask is that you consider yourself too.”

Lavellan closed his eyes. Truly an unlearning fool. Even as the futility of the situation bared its teeth, he still wanted to try. Because he had nothing else otherwise. That thought terrified him more.

“We’ll see,” Lavellan answered and eyed the darkening sky. “We’ll see.”

They remained there for another few moments in meaningful quiet, at least until Lavellan was sure all signs of his almost-cry were gone. Dorian helped him stand and they carried the fish baskets back to camp.

“Thanks,” said Lavellan on the way.

“Anytime,” he said. “I meant everything I said. You’re important too. I hope one day you see it. In the meantime, we’ll keep shouting it for you until it finally sinks in your thick head.”

They reached camp and Dorian cheerily announced their attainment of food, projecting a radiant disposition to take attention off Lavellan which he was thankful for. Cole saw through it, as usual. Lavellan ignored his stare and worked on roasting the fish, made sure everyone had food and stayed quiet as he ate, listened to snippets of conversation around him. Cole was still staring. Solas shot him looks as well. Lavellan _should_ engage someone in conversation, appear as if he was fine, but he couldn’t find the energy to fake it.

Once everyone was sated and conversations had hushed somewhat, Cole tilted his head at Lavellan, hat on his lap.

“He’s right,” said Cole and caught everyone’s attention. “You _are_ important.”

That silenced the whole camp. Lavellan cleared his throat and gave them a tired smile.

“I’m going to go tuck in early.”

“Already?” asked Blackwall. “Sun just set a while ago.”

“I’m really beat,” was his excuse, flimsy as it was.

Solas frowned. “You barely ate,” he said but Lavellan was already halfway through the tent flap.

“I wasn’t that hungry."

The flap closed. He peeled off most of his clothes, dried from the fire, and crawled into his bedroll. He pulled the blanket over his head and curled up beneath it, wallowing in the dark and the soft conversations outside which he knew were about him. At some point, the conversations faded. The fire outside darkened. People said their goodnights and retreated into their tents and Lavellan was still wide awake. At that point, he tuned into the whispers of the Well and it truly was a sad day when he preferred their ominous whispers over the company of his own thoughts.

Dorian meant well, he knew, but there were too many lies between him and Solas. They couldn’t entangle themselves romantically. It would burn them both, just as it had last time, and the only way for it to work this time was if they dismantled all the lies and brought themselves bare. 

And what were the chances of that happening?

He didn’t know. Maybe he never would. Maybe they would dance to the gallows, dangling from the rope of their dishonesty, seizing from the force of their heartache.

Lavellan wasn’t sure when, but he eventually answered the call of sleep.

* * *

He awoke to the stars above him.

Lavellan sighed. Here it was again. Vergala cawed and he was already up, already sprinting to the forest, tearing through the undergrowth, catching the movement of the black cloak of shifting feathers. 

The cloaked figure stayed just within sight. Never too far, but never close.

No faces in the trees tonight. Tonight, it was just them and the bulging moon peering too close, too bright yet too dim. Whenever Lavellan lagged, the figure would stop and wait. They were leading Lavellan. Somewhere. He wasn’t sure where, but he knew he must follow.

The night was black.

All the stars turned away.

Lavellan’s breaths fogged. They did not dissipate. Instead, they accumulated, propagated, became a blanket of mist around him with every exhale. 

Whispers in his mind.

 _Josa, josa, laim’da’lin!_ _Shem’el! Ne juha’lam’shiremah! [2]_

“Ea ir shem[3],” he protested.

_Esaya’el [4]._

Gee, thanks.

_Ma nuvenas sil’ahnen [5]?_

“Vin[6].”

_Rehnan shem’el! [7]_

Cloak to his left. Lavellan swerved and the moon hid behind the clouds. All at once, glyphs on the trees glowed in the darkness. The same four glyphs scattered about, eerie and green and shining past the fog and inviting him to take a closer look, but no, he stayed focused.

Not that it mattered. He lost the cloaked figure and found himself alone in the forest, breaths too rapid, heart too loud. Mist in his throat.

Lavellan panted, senses alert.

_Inana’misu! [8]_

A low growl.

He tensed, scanned his surroundings as the clouds passed the moon and doused the area with light, mist thickening and clamouring into his throat.

Lavellan turned, suddenly clad in his Dalish hunting gear, ironbark bow in his hand. He retrieved an arrow from his quiver, nocked and waited, vigilant. A shadow shifted in the fog. Red eyes. Six of them. Lavellan kept his calm and aimed at the six eyes.

“Fen’Harel,” he greeted. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I was chasing something important and you seem to have scared it away.”

The red eyes faded. 

Lavellan aimed at the sky and released the arrow.

Waited.

A cold sensation pressed against his back but when he turned, there was nothing there. What was that Wolf up to? 

Any moment now.

The fog cleared with an almighty gust of wind and Lavellan turned back around, stared unimpressed at the hulking, lupine beast dripping tar from its fur. It bared its teeth in an impression of a grin. Lavellan cocked his head at him, counted in his mind, waited.

Said, “I wouldn’t stand there if I were you.”

Fen’Harel’s ears pricked and he leapt aside just as the arrow from earlier buried itself into the ground where he'd been standing. He stared at it, dangerously close to his front paw, before he looked up at Lavellan with narrowed eyes. 

“You dare?” he asked, voice a thundering whisper.

“I do,” said Lavellan. A mirror of Fen’Harel’s actions during the tale of the Slow Arrow. “I can do it again, if you’d like.”

Fen’Harel crushed the arrow beneath his large paw.

Lavellan nocked another arrow and drew, aimed right between his many eyes. “Or I can quit throwing arrows in the sky and get on with it. You did chase away my quarry. I believe you’re also invading my dreams. What business?”

“Is this how you thank me?” he asked, grinning. Lavellan frowned at him. 

“What?”

“An accident,” said the Wolf. “We were not meant to meet. Do you not wonder why your nights are peaceful when nightmares had once plagued you?”

Lavellan faltered. “I assumed it was the doing of a friend.”

“It is,” said the Wolf. “We _are_ friends, are we not?”

Lavellan was going to ask Sera to shove lizards in Solas’ bedroll come morning. 

“So, what? _You_ are chasing my nightmares away?”

Fen’Harel tilted his head, six eyes blinking consecutively. “Vun’lin[9], I _devour_ your nightmares.” Lavellan paused at the nickname. That was… new. 

“Why?” he asked.

“Do you not sadden when the sunlight dims?”

Lavellan relaxed his drawn bow, frowned further as he regarded him. 

Fen’Harel looked around. “But this is no nightmare. Perhaps I am the trespasser, after all. I will promptly take my leave and you may resume your hunt.” He shot Lavellan a sly look. “Or perhaps… you could ride me.”

“You’re calling me slow, aren’t you?” 

His grin widened impossibly. “Nonsense. You are simply… lagging.” Ass. “You will never catch your quarry, whatever it may be. Not like that. Do you not ride halla when you hunt faster prey?”

“Those are halla. You are a giant, hulking wolf.” Lavellan eyed the dripping tar. “And you’re dripping.”

“Then you are perfectly free to fall behind. After all, it is not as if your quarry was, what was it you said? Important?” He lowered his head, almost as if he was bowing, but his grin completely ruined any show of deference. “Allow me to conciliate for my transgression of ruining your moonlit hunt, Inquisitor Lavellan. I offer you the opportunity to hunt with the Dread Wolf. If you will have me. Provided you refrain from using my stories against me and unleashing arrows from the skies.”

Lavellan considered him, then looked back out into the forest and pursed his lips because he'd lost sight of the faceless figure. 

“A hunt with the Dread Wolf,” he mused. “Well there’s a story to make the Keeper shriek. So long as it's a hunt _with_ you and not being hunted _by_ you. I will not have you chasing me across the forest like a rabid dog. _You_ are the one aiding me, understand?”

“Perfectly,” he said and lowered himself so Lavellan could have easy access to his back. “Shall we?”

He huffed and approached, and interestingly, the dripping stopped. When Lavellan touched his fur, it was soft and not slick like it had initially appeared. He swung his legs over Fen’Harel’s back and settled, grabbing onto his fur when he rose.

“You are quite pedantic with your wording,” said Fen’Harel.

“I would insult you if I didn’t at least try.”

“And why is that?”

Lavellan smiled. “Do you want to talk or do you want to hunt?”

Fen’Harel barked out a laugh before Lavellan felt the muscles beneath him shifting, coiling tight. “Very well, vun’lin. Hold on. I will show you what it truly means to hunt.”

“I await with bated breath.”

Fen’Harel bounded across the forest. 

Lavellan yelped at the sudden burst of speed and gripped his fur hard, lowered himself so he wouldn’t fall. The wind stung his eyes and he squinted, the trees passing in a blur as Fen’Harel raced through the seemingly endless forest, wind whipping.

He was right. This _was_ faster.

Lavellan found himself grinning as the cold winds washed over his face and blew his hair back, refreshing and clearing his mind.

Elation swelled in his chest, funnelled up his throat and escaped as a carefree laugh. Fen’Harel quickened his pace. The wind howled in Lavellan’s ears and he slowly relaxed, drew himself up straighter, thighs doing most of the work on keeping him in place. 

“You’re going too fast!” Lavellan yelled over the whipping wind.

“No such thing!” Just to prove his point, he accelerated further.

“You mad wolf!”

Fen’Harel laughed and Lavellan joined. They tore through the forest, wind on their faces, mirth in their chests, and when Fen’Harel leapt over a bulging root, they stayed suspended in a single, stolen moment. Once Fen’Harel landed beneath the silver lunar light, his fur shifted to pristine white, turned even softer under Lavellan’s hand. His six eyes flooded with sapphire.

Lavellan threw his head back with a wild and breathless cackle. The thrill of the hunt almost returning. Almost. 

“Come, Wolf,” he said. “Let us start this hunt in earnest.”

Fen’Harel swerved at a large tree and _there_. Lavellan spied the shifting of a dark cloak.

“There!” he said. 

“I see them,” affirmed Fen’Harel.

The cloaked figure led them on a mad chase across the forest and soon, the thrill of the hunt thrummed in his veins, made him itch, eager and hungering. The figure looked over their shoulder. Fen’Harel would catch up soon.

Something told Lavellan he had to shoot. Had to prove his worth.

The figure’s cloak wrapped around them and warped, spread, became wings, became talons, became a raven. A large raven. It cawed a terrible shriek, eyes white and milky, before it turned and coasted across the trees, beating its mighty wings.

 _Bora mar assan, she! I’ve es josa [10]._

Well, it was talky tonight.

He nocked and took aim, a little difficult given Fen’Harel’s movements. No matter.

“How is your aim, vun’lin?”

Solas better take care that he doesn’t accidentally call Lavellan that in the waking world.

“You’ll find out.”

He took a deep breath, the thrum in his veins narrowing into lethal focus.

The sounds of the forest quieted, his vision honing in on his target. Lavellan felt for the breeze, discerned its direction, took note of the raven’s movements, and adjusted his bow. A gentle, slow exhale left his lips. 

He loosed the arrow.

It zipped ever forwards, unerring in its trajectory, arced over the sky and fell, fell, fell. 

Right in the middle of the raven’s back.

It squawked, staggered in its flight. His arrow flared like a lance of light and the colours of an aurora rippled across the raven’s plumage. The stars hummed in exaltation. Fen’Harel slowed to a stop, gaze skywards as the raven beat its wings.

It swooped at them. 

Lavellan balked. “Oh, shi―”

It swerved up before it could hit them and cawed.

 _Come_ , it seemed to say. Fen’Harel looked back at him in question and Lavellan grinned, wide-eyed and wild, euphoria and exhilaration the likes of which he had never felt before burning in his blood.

“Are you faster than a raven, Dread Wolf?”

He returned Lavellan’s grin, sapphire eyes alight. Fen’Harel gave no answer in the form of words and instead let his powerful legs carry them through the forest, right beneath the raven. Lavellan’s arrow became a ribbon of golden light trailing behind it.

They chased it through the night. Fen’Harel showed no signs of tiring which suited Lavellan just fine.

The raven led them out of the forest and out onto the open Plains where they ran beside the stream and beneath the stars and their forgotten hymns. Fen’Harel hummed them beneath him. Lavellan found himself humming along even if he'd never heard the melody before. They followed the stream to a short waterfall where Fen’Harel crouched and leapt to the very top. 

He waded through the water, walked onto dry land. The raven landed by a set of elven doors integrated into the rockface. Its eyes were no longer misty. Now they were as golden as the deepest pools of sunlight.

Lavellan tapped Fen’Harel’s back and he crouched, let Lavellan slide off his back.

The raven was almost as large as the doors. It tilted its head at Lavellan's approach. He held his hand out and the raven crouched to rest its head against it.

Then disappeared in a violent gust of wind and feathers.

He stared at the space the raven used to occupy, frowned, and knew intrinsically that he had finished the hunt. It was a success. Lavellan stared at the door the raven had led them to and rested his hand upon its surface. Two halla above the door framed it. He ran his hands over the pattern etched upon the wood and recognised what the pattern denoted.

“A shrine to Sylaise?” he mumbled to himself. “Why here?”

Lavellan looked back at Fen’Harel who sat back on his haunches, tilting his head, and Lavellan was briefly reminded of the curious wolf he had carved for him. How accurate.

“Are you seeking something, vun’lin?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah, I see how it is. I graciously lend you my services and yet you will keep secrets from me?”

The corner of his lips twitched. “You did not lend your services. You offered them as conciliation for your transgression. Quite a difference. Second, I never said, and you never asked, that we could share the rewards of the hunt. Perhaps next time you should specify.”

It was his turn to smile. “Next time?”

Lavellan paused. Next time? 

“I can scarce believe your hesitation now, not after you took such joy in hunting with me.”

“I―” Lavellan pursed his lips. He wasn’t wrong. Never had he felt that alive before. “I enjoyed it, yes.”

“Enjoy? Such a tame word. You _revelled_. Euphoric in your thrill.” He bared his teeth in a grin and stood slow, languid, yet it filled Lavellan with impending unease. “Such focus and clarity when you took aim. What vivid colours you brought forth with your arrow. I have a better idea for next time.”

Fen’Harel's sharp gaze pinned Lavellan.

“Next time, vun’lin―” he took a step forward and Lavellan took one back, heart pounding, mouth drying― “I would like to be the hunter.”

“I see,” said Lavellan, grip on the bow tightening, anticipating yet dreading with every step Fen’Harel took. 

“Do you know who I would like to chase? Which quarry I wish to flush out of its den?”

Lavellan already knew the answer.

Fen’Harel laughed, dark and sinister and utterly delighted.

“You.” 

* * *

Lavellan awoke with a sharp gasp, limbs trembling. Not from fear. Not from dread or anxiety. 

From exhilaration. 

“Sweet Sylaise,” he muttered beneath his breath, noted that the bedrolls around him were already empty and that there was chatter outside. Lavellan waited until he stopped shaking before he clambered out of the tent. The light was bright and he squinted. The sun was already at a considerable height, even through the orange haze. “Urgh,” he grumbled. “Elgar’nan, strike the sun down again.”

“Good afternoon, Glowy,” Varric teased.

“I’ll push you into the river,” he muttered.

“Aww, it’s the grumpy frump,” cooed Sera. 

Lavellan rubbed his eyes and let them adjust to the light. He blinked blearily, still half-asleep and wishing he were on the back of a great wolf tearing through the forest at hair-whipping speeds.

“This is a rare occurrence,” said Varric as Lavellan all but flopped down on a log, the rest of his companions either gone or busying themselves with gearing up. “You slept for a long time.”

“For once, I’m not the last one to wake up,” said Dorian, already groomed and ready for the day. Lavellan glowered. 

“Sleep well, Inquisitor?” came Solas’ dulcet voice from behind him.

Lavellan grumbled. “I overslept,” he said. “That has never happened before.”

“There is a first for everything,” said Solas and he walked to the edge of the river with a basin. Lavellan squinted at his retreating back. Next time the Wolf wanted to hunt, Lavellan would shove arrows into all six of his eyes.

“Hey Sera, want to put lizards in Solas’ bedroll?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon 'I'll keep all my emotions right here, and then one day I'll die' Lavellan. Sweetie, no. (Watching John Mulaney clips instead of doing stuff I need to do? Couldn't be me)
> 
> I cry anytime I see Solas content so you can imagine the week I've had what with the DA4 behind-the-scenes stuff getting dropped. Look at Solas in his all-black outfit, little dramatic emo, off to destroy the world. And who is that mysterious Qunari? She can crack my back like a glow stick over her knee and I'd give her heart eyes.
> 
> In all seriousness, the concept art was breathtaking. Chef's kiss.
> 
> (Okay, seriously, [the ravens are massive](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/628238688669859840/i-said-what-i-said-the-ravens-are-massive). They're birds-of-prey size. Imagine this asshole just comes walking in with an eagle on his shoulders. I'd be terrified. This eagle-sized bird is black, has a crooked beak and red eyes, and can talk. Fuck spying, Vergala could tear a man's face to shreds. Power to you, baby. )
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Ane'th:** (You) are safe[⇧]  
> [2] **Josa, josa, laim'da'lin! Shem'el! Ne juha'lam'shiremah!:** Run run, lost little boy! Faster! You’ll be left behind![⇧]  
> [3] **Ea ir shem:** They’re too quick[⇧]  
> [4] **Esaya'el:** Try harder[⇧]  
> [5] **Ma nuvenas sil'ahnen?:** You desire answers?[⇧]  
> [6] **Vin:** Yes[⇧]  
> [7] **Rehnan shem'el!:** In that case, faster![⇧]  
> [8] **Inana'misu!:** Watch out (lit. watch the knife)[⇧]  
> [9] **Vun'lin:** Little sun (more of a diminutive nickname over literally little. Basically he's calling Lavellan sunling)[⇧]  
> [10] **Bora mar assan, she! I've es josa:** Shoot your arrow, quickly! Before it flees![⇧]


	35. Into the heart of shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild NSFW content ahead (I assure you, it's not who you think). Dubious consent. I've put in a skip button before the content if you'd like to avoid it in case.

_peer behind the curtains—_

* * *

He encountered the first glyph through tragedy.

Lavellan delivered the news to the Dalish about the death of their Second, Valorin, and softened the blow by omitting Valorin’s attempts to use blood magic in order to find Lindiranae’s talisman. To impress the Keeper and earn the title as the First. He sighed. Foolish teenagers. Least Lavellan could do was find the talisman and give it to the Dalish for some peace of mind. 

That was how they ended up in front of a familiar set of doors. The shrine to Sylaise. The very door Fen’Harel had helped him find. The waterfall whispered behind them. Ascending it had been much more difficult without Fen’Harel to cover the distance for him. There was also a wolf statue at the top of the waterfall. It hadn’t been there in the dream.

Lavellan stared at the door.

“Are… we going in?” asked Bull.

“Wind whipping and wild,” said Cole. “My blood sings, choral. Would he dance if I asked him to? Shifting, shimmering, sharing the stars and the songs under the sky. Glowing beneath the moonlight. I lose my breath. I am more alive than I’ve ever been.”

Solas stayed quiet. Lavellan smiled at the memory, allowed himself a droplet of fondness.

“What’s he talking about?” Bull grumbled.

“The hunt,” said Lavellan.

“You know, Mercy, sometimes you’re worse than him.”

“He can be,” agreed Cole. “But he won’t.” Cole paused. “Wait. Might. No, won’t.”

Bull made a very displeased noise.

“Boo,” Lavellan teased. He opened the door with the key he'd found on Valorin’s body and expected the door to creak, perhaps drag on the floor after centuries of disuse, expected dust. But the door swung with neither hitch nor sound and no motes of dust danced in the light. Magic still protected this place. 

They clambered down the stairs littered with fallen bricks, and the moment Lavellan stepped foot within the dark chamber, a clear ring tolled in his head. A small, meek bell.

Solas lit the Veilfire and green light flooded the large space. Empty. It may have been a shrine to Sylaise at one point but there was nothing left. A magical barrier blocked a section of the wall and he nodded for Solas to take it down. What lay beyond had Lavellan sighing heavily.

A corpse. Mummified, somehow, despite not being wrapped. Pointed ears, lithe build, faded and tattered elven robes. 

“They marched, silver and spectral but solid,” said Cole. “They call me wild, fearless, savage. So I will be wild, fearless, savage. They cheered as she fell, words dripping from her lips. Whispered until she died.” He looked down. “I will not submit.”

_Never again shall we submit._

“Lindiranae,” Lavellan murmured, fists clenching. The Dales had fallen with her death. “Did they just shove her in here? To be forgotten?” He knelt beside the corpse and he pursed his lips. Didn’t even grant her the courtesy of a burial. Var Bellanaris was literally a short walk away, nugshits. 

“Bull, Solas,” he said, “go back to the Dalish camp and get another casket.” He looked behind him at this silent, empty, deadened room. “I want to bring her to Var Bellanaris and lay her to rest. She deserves better.”

Bull nodded, gave a soft assent. Solas lingered, before he took a step forward and laid a reassuring hand on Lavellan’s shoulder and squeezed. Lavellan wasn’t thinking when he reached for his hand and squeezed back. Warm. He removed his hand before he could spook Solas. Or himself.

“Go on,” Lavellan whispered. “I’ll be fine.”

Solas left, lingered once more at the door with an unreadable expression before he left.

“ _His people suffered because of me. He suffers because of me_ ,” said Cole.

To that, Lavellan had no response. He stood and the small bell rang again.

“Remnants of the Elvhen. Is this what she meant?” he asked and let the ringing lead to the opposite wall, something faint and shimmering on its surface, magic ghosting over his skin. He grabbed the Veilfire off its bracket and hovered it above the glyph.

It lit. Lavellan’s breath left him. This was one of the glyphs in his dream before Fen’Harel had arrived, branded on the trees.

It reached for him, imparted a secret lesson—

> _“Let me borrow him.” Her eyes are red. She is red. When she smiles, it slips like poisoned wine. She cups my cheeks, sharp nails ghosting over my skin. “Just for one night.”_
> 
> _He frowns at her, violet eyes shimmering with disdain. “No. He is not for sharing.”_
> 
> _“Come now, brother. I merely wish to teach him.”_
> 
> _“In your bedroom, I presume? No. Find another to lay with.”_
> 
> _“You accuse me of the crudest things.” She grins, teeth flashing, fit for tearing skin. “I would like to teach him how to hunt. He has been doing splendidly since he has trained and matured, but if he is serious about serving as your hidden arm, he must learn to fly like the knife he could be. Sharp, focused.” She looks back at me and tips my chin up, gaze tracing the lines of devotion marked on my face. “A valuable lesson, no?”_
> 
> _I glance at him in question. He remains apprehensive._
> 
> _“If it will help him,” I say._
> 
> _Her grin widens and she laughs, carefree and wild. Red. She is Freedom. Not liberty. Simple, untainted freedom._
> 
> _“You. I will enjoy you.”_
> 
> _Her spoils decorate her quarters, but her bedroom remains untouched, a private sanctuary. The door clicks behind her, shimmering with magic._
> 
> _“You said you would teach me to hunt,” I say._
> 
> _“I will.” She slips behind me, fingers curling on my waist as she turns and pushes me down onto her bed. “I will show you another hunt. Just as pleasurable.” Sharp nails trail up my chest, red eyes flashing as she hovers over me. “Have you lain with anyone before?”_
> 
> _I frown, uncertain of the word and its implications._
> 
> _She laughs in her delight. “Never… explored?” Her hands trail south. Grasps. I jolt at the unknown sensation. A fire is roaring in her great hearth, heating the room, but I suspect that is not why I feel warm. “No matter. It would hardly be teaching if you already knew.”_
> 
> _“He doesn’t want me here,” I say._
> 
> _“Forget what he wants for now. He isn’t here.” She brushes her lips over my neck. “When this is over, you will have a new weapon in your arsenal.”_
> 
> _The prospect of it relaxes me. Not only that. Her touches are intriguing, bringing forth new sensations that I never thought possible, but the lack of control over my actions has me tensing once more. She hushes me._
> 
> _“Relax.” She guides my hands to her breasts. “Let us begin this hunt.”_
> 
> _Her red lips close over mine._ {skip}
> 
> _Heat. I am heat but her hands are cool as she grips me, stroking slow, bringing me closer to the precipice by the neck. My focus slips. Tantalising agony. I grip the sheets beneath me in a futile effort to anchor myself._
> 
> _“Know this, little shadow,” she murmurs into my sweat-coated skin. “Understand this. They call this pleasure.” She tightens her grip and I keen. “And this is pain. Two edges of a blade. Use one or both. Pleasure can work just as well as or better than pain. Do you understand?”_
> 
> _“Yes,” I whisper, shaky and tremulous._
> 
> _“Now, I will show you_ anticipation _.” Something rises in me, building, called to the surface by her touch. My breaths quicken. I cannot stop the noises and my head spins and― She stops. The ocean retreats. I buck and cry for something I do not know or understand. She chuckles. “That, little shadow, is anticipation. Do it enough and you will break them. Do you break?”_
> 
> _I grit my teeth. “No.”_
> 
> _“No? What do you do?”_
> 
> _I meet her red eyes with a determined glare. “I bend.”_
> 
> _Her eyes squint in approval and she resumes her strokes._
> 
> _“Bend then.”_
> 
> _I am still trembling even after I finish. A climax, she says. A goal or a point or an unreachable reward._
> 
> _Or a weapon._
> 
> _“Whatever you desire for it to be, whichever blade is needed for the moment,” she says and smiles. “You painted such a beautiful picture for me. What lovely noises.”_
> 
> _“What of you?” I ask._
> 
> _She fans herself. “A gentleman. Querying after me. Truly, you are charming.”_
> 
> _I stare at her for a moment, debating my choices and their consequences, but I place them aside. What a poor student I will make if I do not apply her teachings. I take advantage of her lax posture and flip our positions. She hits her pillows with a bewildered look._
> 
> _“Well, well,” she purrs. “You_ are _a fast learner. If my brother weren’t so selfish, I would keep you for days. Do you know what to do next?”_
> 
> _I hesitate. She does not mock or taunt, merely smiles and guides me._
> 
> _“Very well. This time, you will be the hunter. Watch closely.”_
> 
> _Daylight breaks and she remains languorous in her bed, watches as I dress myself with newfound focus. The lessons remain in my mind, placed beside the others. Ways of deception and blades and blood and magic and manipulation._
> 
> _“You will bore quick,” she says. I look up at her and she tilts her head back, neck and breasts displaying the marks I've left. “It is your nature. You will leave my brother the moment he becomes stagnant.”_
> 
> _I stay silent. I cannot comprehend the thought of leaving him. Why will I?_
> 
> _“Lucky for you, the bastard is fickle. I suspect you will enjoy it for a few thousand years.”_
> 
> _“Not that I’m ungrateful,” I say, “but why did you teach me this?”_
> 
> _She tilts her head back forward to grin at me. “I want you armed to the teeth.” She shifts, the sheets slipping over her skin. “Our empire is young. It must be protected as it ascends to its true glory, and to remain in that golden era, it must cast a deep shadow. We have a responsibility to protect it. You now serve its protectors. You must be more than adequate.”_
> 
> _I consider this, and nod._
> 
> _“And you are capable of being more than adequate.” She stares up at the ceiling in thought. “Will you come lay with me again?”_
> 
> _“I will have to respectfully decline.”_
> 
> _She sighs. “I suspected as much. Ah well, it is probably for the best.”_
> 
> _The door to her quarters slams open and he strides in, expression dark and thunderous, violet eyes gleaming like stones slicked by the rain._
> 
> _“Andruil!” he bellows. “Does your licentiousness know no bounds?” He marches to her bed and she merely smiles up at him._
> 
> _“It’s alright,” I say. That stops him and he turns to look at me, frown easing but not by much. I give him a dark and solemn smile. “She has given me a new weapon. I will cast a darker and deeper shadow.”_
> 
> _He falters, pursing his lips as he glares at Andruil who shrugs._
> 
> _“Let him learn, brother. It is who he is.” Her red eyes flick towards me, swift like a bow. “The hunt remains ever changing. And now he is a hunter.”_

Lavellan saw the image of a hawk and hare chasing the sun.

He leapt back as if stung, room shifting from darkness to light and back again. Lavellan stared at the glyphs but no new visions came, merely the hawk and the hare. Andruil’s sacred animals. If he focused, he could hear her voice, see the red of her eyes, feel the ghostly touches on bare skin. The memory came with the emotions, the swell and crest of the moment; not just a visual replayed to him but a broken piece returned to a scaffold. It took him a moment to return to himself.

“What the fuck,” he said, “was _that_?”

“She showed you how to fight another way, gripping, golden and gasping. Sometimes the shadows had to be warm, not cold.” He frowned. “They wanted a weapon. But you’re a person. I don’t get it. How can a person become a weapon? Weapons aren’t people.”

_I wasn’t a person, not to them._

He closed his eyes, braced himself against the wall. The glyph’s green glow mocked him.

Questions spun and toppled in his mind and in his panic, he'd almost forgotten the glaring revelation that those memories implied.

He uncovered his face, still unsure of the many blanks in between. But one blank had been filled. Even if twenty more had risen in its place but that was just how it went.

“I was Elvhen,” he whispered, eyes wide. “But… No. I have memories of― I? No, was it Mahanon? No, I _am_ Mahanon, I don’t―” He clutched at his hair and pulled.

“You were from Before,” said Cole. “But also, after. You _are_ Mahanon. You have to keep looking. A torn portrait, pieces pulling from unknown places. You have to find them to make it make sense.”

“I don’t know how to react,” he admitted, lost in the dim room, searched the glyph for any more answers. He transferred that lost look to Cole. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re who you’ve always been.”

“But I’m not,” he snapped. Lavellan rubbed his face and paced. “Ma uneolasas![1]” he accused the Well. “Ma tel’undirthas.[2]" 

The Well hissed, _Tel’unav’ahnas! [3]_

He chewed on his lip, and paused. If the Well knew, and if it was tied to Mythal, then did she know who he was? 

No, fuck that. That wasn’t the right question.

Did Mythal know Lavellan was currently holding the Well of Sorrows even if her temple had not been breached yet and would she have put two and two together? Idiot! That should have been his first concern. He faced Cole with a blank expression because everything was too much and impassivity was the safest option.

“One at a time,” reminded Cole.

Lavellan glared at a spot on the wall. “I want to retire,” he muttered.

* * *

They lay Lindiranae to rest at Var Bellanaris and the Dalish gradually warmed up to Lavellan and the Inquisition. They also contacted Empress Celene’s troops across the bridge so that was the Orlesian problem sorted.

Although his main concern at the moment…

The Veilfire flickered in the torch and Lavellan hesitated at the elven glyph.

“Is something wrong?” asked Dorian. He needed a mage for the Veilfire and damned if he wanted Solas along. Or Vivienne for that matter. She was too astute for his liking, not that Dorian wasn’t observant. Rather, he was less suspicious, Lavellan supposed. Cole lingered beside them.

“No, nothing,” said Lavellan and approached. 

This glyph exhaled a nostalgic encounter.

> _She cowers in the corner, weeping. Her old master lies dead in a pool of his own blood in front of her and the mirror shard she holds is bloodstained in her pale, trembling hands. She looks up at me. Fearful. Her aura radiates it, almost suffocating. Impressive for one so young. I tilt my head and hum._
> 
> _I step over the dead body and crouch in front of her, conscious about leaving enough room so she won’t feel trapped._
> 
> _“Have you come to kill me?” she asks. June’s vallaslin stretches over her face, her old master’s god of choice._
> 
> _“I have come to kill him, actually,” I say and offer a warm smile. “You have done it for me.”_
> 
> _She drops the shard, her palms also cut, and she bows her head. “I am sorry, hahren. I did not― You are― I am sorry.”_
> 
> _“Why do you cry? Raise your head.” She does so. “How old are you?”_
> 
> _Her lips tremble but she manages to answer, “Twelve.”_
> 
> _My mood darkens. “Do not feel sorry for this man.”_
> 
> _“But my master is of noble blood. The gods―”_
> 
> _“Sent me to rid our empire of him. The People are better off without his presence. You have done us a favour, da’len. Come, stand.” I offer her my hand and she takes it. My magic heals the cut the shard has inflicted. She stands, though she is shaky on her knees, so I slip my arms beneath her and carry her against me, placating her with a gentle blanket of my own aura._
> 
> _“Your name?” I ask._
> 
> _She holds on to my robes, gripping tight, still trembling. “I was not given one.”_
> 
> _I frown. “What do they call you then?”_
> 
> _“Sil’ve.”_ Memory _. I sense it, sense her. Deep blue._
> 
> _“That is who you were before.”_
> 
> _She nods. “I am womb-born.” A spirit who has assimilated with a child still in their mother’s womb._
> 
> _“What of your mother?”_
> 
> _“She sold me to Master Thenaven. I do not know her.”_
> 
> _“Has your magic manifested?”_
> 
> _In response, she summons a small, wisping flame. I hum. “No, that is not how you like to do it. Try again, as you would like, and not how others tell you to.”_
> 
> _She hesitates. We pass by an ornamental fountain. Her expression sets, determined, and she casts her hands out and grips. The fountain shatters as water sprays. I smile._
> 
> _“Good,” I say._
> 
> _“Where are you taking me?”_
> 
> _I look at her. “How would you like to learn to become one with the shadows?” I ask. “To be seen and unseen whenever you wish. To strike where you are needed. To watch and collect information. Elvhenan has no need for those like Thenaven.”_
> 
> _She looks down at her bloodstained hands. “Can I do that?” she asks, whispers._
> 
> _“You will need to be trained. I will train you myself.”_
> 
> _Her gaze hardens and her lips flatten in a determined line._
> 
> _“I would like to learn.”_
> 
> _She stands to attention when I sweep past. I stare at her and she stares back, defiant. No longer twelve. Now an adult in her own right, hardened by years of training, able to shift with the shadows and the water and become a knife or a poisoned chalice. Her hands never shake. Deep blue. June’s vallaslin which has once graced her face has changed to match mine._
> 
> _I present her the dagger with the raven totem._
> 
> _She stares at it, wide-eyed. I smile._
> 
> _“As of today, you will join the ranks of the El’ras’amelan [4]. You will answer directly to me.”_
> 
> _She takes the dagger with two hands and falls to one knee with her head bowed. “I will not disappoint you, Ras’virelan [5].”_
> 
> _“Will you choose a new name for yourself?”_
> 
> _“Yes.”_
> 
> _“Rise. Tell me.”_
> 
> _She does so and she clasps the dagger tight as she declares:_
> 
> _“Asunara.”_

The memories ended and he was left with an image of two ravens, one gripping a mirror, the other a heart.

Memory. That was Memory. Asunara, her name had been. 

A soft exhale left him. Faded pride welled within his chest, leaving with each string of his breath until he was left cold. The world pressed at him, heavy and chaining — this new world where they couldn’t extend themselves, where they couldn’t impress upon or discern the emotions and complex sentiments of others when words would not suffice.

“Everything alright?” Dorian asked. “You’ve been silent for a while.”

Lavellan blinked, gave Dorian a shaky smile, weathered through the flutter of compression. “Yeah. Let’s… write it down. Need to have someone look at it later.”

He left Dorian to it since he enjoyed doing it and staggered over to Cole, disoriented, breaths too thin. Cole supported him.

It was as if a sense had been taken from him.

No, not as if. It _had_ been. The Veil had— disconnected them. Lavellan scrunched his eyes shut and took in a trembling breath. It took another few breaths before the press of the world became… _less_. Less. It felt less. He felt less. Diminished.

Something different.

He clenched his jaw.

“Nothing sings the same,” said Cole.

He let go of Cole once he trusted his legs would hold. “I remember, but I’m still… It’s still not complete.”

“What did you see?”

“Memory. She was one of mine.” Lavellan closed his eyes. “Did it hurt her? Seeing me, seeing that I couldn't recognise her?”

“Like a flash of fresh fear, as if she was twelve again and you stand in front of her but this time, she’ll return the favour. She carried the dagger in your name. You carried her so gently and offered her to be more. She wants to look after the world you loved.” Cole looked at Lavellan under the brim of his hat. “She tried to keep you together when you shattered. Swept the broken glass into the frame and pieced it together even if she bled.”

He rubbed his face. New terms which had com up with that memory. Asunara had called him Ras’virelan. Shadow Walker? Or even Mist Walker. One who dwelled and walked in amorphous ambiguity.

“Ras’virelan,” he murmured, tested it on his tongue.

“They started whispering,” said Cole. “It’s what they called you in fear. You took it. Made it into a title. They feared even more.”

Still many holes in the narrative. Lavellan paused. Wait. If he had been present in Elvhenan… Did he meet Solas from then? His mouth dried. Did Solas know him?

“No,” said Cole. Lavellan’s shoulders slumped. He wasn’t sure if it was out of relief or disappointment. “He doesn’t remember you at all. But it’s strange.” He frowned. “The pieces should be next to each other when you don’t remember because it didn’t happen. But there’s a space. Something’s missing. I’m confused.”

“You think something interfered with his memories?”

“I don’t know. I only see what you see and what your hurt touches.” He looked down and again said, “I’m confused.”

Well, Lavellan supposed it was too much to ask for straightforward answers.

“Me too. Keep searching?”

Cole nodded.

* * *

Lavellan dreamt of the great raven leading him to an ancient bath.

The next morning, he approached Solas.

“Solas, you mentioned you'd dreamt of an ancient bath around here?”

Solas glanced up at him, in the middle of looking over the two glyphs they'd found. 

“You would like to see it,” he surmised.

Lavellan nodded. “Can we go?” It was a risk, taking Solas, but there were no other options. It was faster this way, and their business in the Exalted Plains was slowly ending. Solas smiled. 

“Of course,” he said. “When would you like to depart?”

He slung his bow over his back. “Now.”

If he picked up on Lavellan’s hurry, he said nothing of it, only grabbed his staff and necessities before they were off. Cole followed close behind. 

The ancient baths were dilapidated, as Lavellan expected, and it also held a rift. That had been a surprise. The three of them appeared to be enough though and soon, Lavellan closed the rift, ears listening for the familiar tolling of the glyphs. 

There.

“Solas, I think it’s a glyph,” he said as he ran his fingers over the faint shimmer on the stone.

“So it is.” He lit the Veilfire for him and Lavellan pulled it off its bracket with growing dread. 

“Should we go back for paper?” he asked in hopes of stalling. Unfortunately, Solas was prepared and he took out sheafs of paper and charcoal from his satchel. 

“I came prepared,” he said with a small smile.

Lavellan returned it, though it felt false. “What luck.”

He steeled himself and drew the Veilfire closer. The glyph hissed a rebellious whisper.

> _“You are foolish.”_
> 
> _He smiles at me like the utter imp he is. “Am I?”_
> 
> _“You’re stirring up Mythal’s court with the change of your name.”_
> 
> _“What? Felassan? I think it’s clever.”_
> 
> _“It was needless.”_
> 
> _“Which? The name or the slow arrow?”_
> 
> _“Both.”_
> 
> _Felassan chuckles, turns and faces me, squints. “Must you always do that?”_
> 
> _“Do what?”_
> 
> _He gestures. “The whole… shadow. Thing. I recognise that it’s your entire persona and all, but you could do with some colour other than black.”_
> 
> _My lips quirk. “I look good in black.”_
> 
> _Felassan grumbles, plucks a blade of grass and twists it around his fingers. Mythal’s vallaslin shifts on his face as he pulls his brows into a frown. “He was in her court. I don’t see what the fuss is about. And I did serve under him for a while. He was a good commander. I’m simply honouring him.”_
> 
> _“There’s the problem. You’re honouring him. You honour a man who's abandoned his duty to his god and has burned her mark off his face and is now off terrorising the People.”_
> 
> _“Only the nobility.”_
> 
> _“The nobility are still the People.”_
> 
> _Felassan gives me a pointed look. “You can’t keep doing that. When it’s the People against the People, who do you protect then?”_
> 
> _I look away. “I protect those who need it.”_
> 
> _“And who dictates that?” he asked, expression twisting into a dark scowl contradictory to his usual easy-going demeanour. “The Evanuris?”_
> 
> _“I do have things I do outside of orders, you know?” I muse dryly._
> 
> _“And most of the good work you’ve done was outside orders.” His eyes spark. “You don’t have to keep following him—”_
> 
> _“Don’t,” I warn, voice dropping. The shadows curling around my ankles hiss. Felassan sighs and raises his arms in surrender._
> 
> _“Alright,” he says. “By the Void, you’re all so dreary. At least he brings a little laughter into this whole dull affair.”_
> 
> _“I’m glad you find mirth in his betrayal.”_
> 
> _“You’re so dramatic. It was hardly a betrayal.”_
> 
> _“What is it then, if not that?”_
> 
> _Felassan lets go of the blade of grass and the wind carries it far away._
> 
> _“Rebellion.” He stares at me. “Freedom.”_
> 
> _We stand in uncertain silence, his stare as steady as mine._
> 
> _“You shouldn’t say that to me,” I say._
> 
> _“Are you here to kill me, Ras?”_
> 
> _I can. It won’t be hard. Let him turn back around and deliver a quick strike. Disable his magic without his knowing. Curdle his blood. Or it can be quick. Painless. There and gone. No more Felassan._
> 
> _“I’m not here to kill you. Only reprimand you,” I say instead. “And he is an Evanuris. No matter my grievances, I will defer.”_
> 
> _“He doesn’t consider himself one,” says Felassan._
> 
> _“Of course not. Besides, they know he hates it. It was a punishment, not a reward.”_
> 
> _“He was Wisdom first.”_
> 
> _“Mythal made him deliver orders instead of wisdom. Is it any wonder?” She has misused her tool, denied him of his true purpose. Wisdom becomes Pride._
> 
> _I pause._
> 
> _Or perhaps it’s what she's wanted all along._
> 
> _“Now, now, is that disapproval I hear?” Felassan asks. “I can't let you badmouth my deity like that.”_
> 
> _“You bear Mythal’s vallaslin but you’ve already declared for your true allegiance.”_
> 
> _Felassan smiles slow. “I’d take his vallaslin, if he had one. But that would be counterproductive. He’d hate that. Besides, names are much more intimate, aren’t they? You can be a hidden blade, I can be a slow arrow.”_
> 
> _“Why do you follow him?”_
> 
> _“Why does anyone follow anyone?” Felassan’s expression turns grim. “Ras, we’re friends, aren’t we?”_
> 
> _“When you’re not annoying.”_
> 
> _“Ah, splendid. So then.” He slings an arm around my shoulder and leans in close, eyes crinkling with his hollow smile. “Our empire is rotting from the inside. You know that, don’t you?”_
> 
> _I stay quiet._
> 
> _“It rankles, doesn’t it? No matter how hard you scrub, the stain remains. But it’s not below that you should keep your eyes on.” He looks up at the sky. “Look above. There you’ll find your answer. Only if you want to open your eyes.”_
> 
> _“Careful,” I warn. “I may respect you and your loyalty to him, but if you say something treasonous in my presence, I will have to act.”_
> 
> _“Outside your presence?”_
> 
> _“I can't be everywhere at once. Some things slip.”_
> 
> _He looks back at me, gaze solemn. “That’s quite telling. You know something is wrong. If you just—”_
> 
> _“Enough.”_
> 
> _“You can—”_
> 
> _“Final warning.”_
> 
> _“You remind me of him,” he murmurs. “You came through for them. Look what they do to you.”_
> 
> _“You know nothing.”_
> 
> _Felassan gives me a sad look. “I know too much.”_

The memory stopped. The glyph showed an image of a pair of hands cupping the moon. Lavellan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Lethallin?”

He took a deep breath, faced Solas with a casual hum. Solas frowned at him. 

“Sorry, did I space out?” he asked. “I was thinking. Pardon, I’m in the way.” Lavellan stepped aside and left Solas to it. His gaze followed Lavellan as he moved, and he only relaxed once Solas looked away.

Once far enough, he collapsed against a ruined column, hand covering his face. Felassan… Yes, Felassan. There were faint emotions, faint impressions, which lingered in the peripheries of his awareness. Gone like morning dew beneath a summer sun. Didn’t Briala mention a mentor by that name?

Familiarity battled with the impassive disconnection one would feel towards a stranger. As if two parts of him couldn’t agree on how anything fit properly. Not with too many pieces still missing.

He watched Solas’ back and Cole sat beside Lavellan.

Lavellan knew of Solas back then, which was no great surprise, but did Solas know him in return? Confusing. Everything was confusing.

“Still missing,” said Cole.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. Maybe he could ask Briala about Felassan’s whereabouts. He was likely still helping Solas or acting in his name. Could he be at Skyhold? No, Felassan wasn’t on Lavellan’s listed Fen’Harel agents.

Cole stared at him. “He’s nowhere,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“His friend had to die. He thought they were people.” Cole wrung his fingers and Lavellan’s heart sank. “A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf’s jaws.”

Lavellan stared at Solas’ back. Tears pricked, unbidden, but no emotion accompanied it.

“Ah,” was all he said on the matter.

“He thought of her before he died. Lost home, lost people, lost girl.” Had thought of Briala.

“Again and again,” said Lavellan with a derisive laugh as he covered his eyes. “Sacrifice after sacrifice. Felassan was so loyal to him.” So loyal. There was a stir of respect, and an echoing wave of mourning.

“He’s starting to see what the Slow Arrow saw.”

“And what will that amount to?” asked Lavellan, unbelievably tired. “In the end?”

“Hate hewn, but also, hope,” said Cole. “How will it end, this time?” He gave Lavellan another of his soul-searching looks.

Lavellan fixed Solas’ back another intent stare.

“It won’t.”

* * *

His dream had shown him the way to the final glyph. There was an urgency to it.

Lavellan cast a glance at Solas’ sleeping form before he shook his head and stepped outside. The campfire embers twinkled like grounded stars.

Vergala perched on his shoulders and Cole joined him without a word.

The forests were eerie, yet serene, able to finally breathe after suffocating for far too long. As the days had passed, the orange haze of the sky cleared. The Exalted Plains were healing.

Lavellan navigated the moonlit forests, favoured by the night. 

They encountered the ruins, barely much of anything, and he wasn’t certain what it used to be. Now there were only crumbled bridges and collapsed entrances into what may have been tunnels.

And there the glyph was.

He stared at the Veilfire bracket and frowned. Oops.

“Wait,” said Cole. “The one in the shrine still burns. It’s close.” He disappeared. Lavellan lingered in the forest and stared up at the brush of stars beyond the thin canopies. So many questions. So few answers. He wasn’t sure what to make of anything, wasn’t sure whether he knew who he was. How did he become Mahanon? From Elvhen to Dalish? Cole had adamantly insisted that he was Mahanon, that he'd been born Dalish too. How could that be?

A green flash of light caught his attention. Cole stood with a Veilfire torch which he passed onto Lavellan. He took it with a steadying breath.

And so, the final glyph divulged its terrible, heavy, reverent revelation.

> _“Are you certain?” she asks._
> 
> _“I trust him.”_
> 
> _He looks at me, clever and beautifully poisonous; violet eyes. Shade of wisteria. I want to serve him until the day I die. Use me. Brandish me. I will protect the People for you. I will kill the People for you. I will be your hidden blade._
> 
> _“He is newly born.”_
> 
> _“He asks for me immediately. Not ten minutes and he has already branded himself with my mark.” He smiles. I do not trust the smile. It is a perfect smile. Perfect. He is perfect. “Have you named yourself yet?”_
> 
> _I utter his._
> 
> _He laughs — warm syrup, cold edge. I do not trust his laugh either. An unknown sensation passes through me, but it makes me itch, makes me want to tear through the skies and… Emotions. It will take me a while to recognise them. I will call this feeling yellow. I know colours. Joy is yellow. Maybe it is joy._
> 
> _“No, no, that is my name. You cannot use it. No matter, allow yourself time. It will come to you.”_
> 
> _“Name me,” I say._
> 
> _“No.”_
> 
> _I defer. No questions. Whatever he seeks._
> 
> _“Fascinating,” says the other one. She is sharp, blue, bright. Justice. Vengeance. Voices melodious. “Such loyalty already. Quite peculiar too, for one such as it. He now, I suppose.”_
> 
> _He walks to me and crouches so he can look me in the eyes. They call me child, still. I am small._
> 
> _“Do you want to fly?” I ask him. I am small, but I can be bigger. “I can help you fly.”_
> 
> _He looks back at the sharp, blue one. The one he calls Mother. He smiles. “He means to shapeshift. Already.”_
> 
> _She hums. “Good find, then. Let’s see it shall we?”_
> 
> _It hurts. Everything here does not change as I bid it to, but I will make it. I will make myself change. I can do it. I change myself to better give him the sky and darkness he so adores to dwell in._
> 
> _“My, my,” says the Mother. “That_ is _impressive.”_
> 
> _His delight makes me violet. Deeper violet than his eyes. Pride. Proud? Proud. He climbs upon my back and I stretch my mighty wings, challenging the skies. He and I will fight it. Can fight it. He and I will soar within it and my shadow will stretch across this great empire, and I will dedicate that shadow to him. My shadow is his. I will extend his reach to cover this realm._
> 
> _I will be his greatest weapon._
> 
> _I taunt the sky as I take flight and we are unstoppable, together. Make me into art. Let me see you use me as your brush in your masterful pieces, your careful secrets._
> 
> _If you fail, I will ruin you._

Lavellan saw Dirthamen on the back of a great and terrible raven.

He stepped back from the wall with a gasp, head pounding, the forest spinning around him. Dirthamen, it was Dirthamen. He'd served Dirthamen. The god with the violet eyes and Lavellan still didn’t know jackshit about anything.

Cole caught him as he staggered back. He lowered Lavellan gently onto the floor where he waited for the world and his head to stop whirling.

“Did you see?” Cole asked.

He traced the familiar lines of his vallaslin, stared at the glyphs, but no more visions came besides the one of Dirthamen on the raven. If he focused, he could discern his violet eyes.

“I did,” Lavellan said, tasted veneration on his tongue. “I came for him. I came through for him.”

“Like I came through for Cole?”

“You wanted to help Cole but I… I devoted myself to him.” He covered his face, still unsure of the many blanks in between. Lavellan closed his eyes. Devotion on his lips. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth but the taste would remain. Thick. Finally escaped to the surface. He had to revile it. Otherwise, he didn’t know what he would do because it wasn’t just on his lips. It was in his soul, the very fibre of his being, a vital thread upon which the others were anchored. He couldn't dedicate himself to a god locked away. Should not. Would not.

He had had enough of gods, enough of reverence, enough of worship, and now actual people needed him. The ones who lived on this bloody world. They needed him, and they couldn’t afford to lose him.

“Weary as you watch over the world. I told you that you loved it.”

“So you did,” he sighed. “Wretched.”

“You still love it.”

Lavellan hung his head, heart and soul heavy, before he looked up at Cole with a hollow smile. 

“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t.”

And his eyes softened in empathy. “No. You don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. The what-if that started this fic. (Listen, out of all the elven gods, Dirthamen just really intrigued me and I went hmMMMmM). 
> 
> Whew, a bit of a loaded chapter. (And that first scene with Andruil was not meant to be nice. I had debated on whether to keep it or not and ultimately decided to keep it. But yes, she took advantage of Lavellan's inexperience and vulnerability and further warped his image of himself as nothing but a weapon, an object to be utilised).
> 
> *collective groans from everyone because oh my god an Elvhen MC AGAIN??? Really??? Hasn’t that been done to death in solavellan fics??* Ahaha... 
> 
> I am also really apprehensive about the direction I'm taking the story in. There's always a risk when you run off with canon lore and introduce change (haha, Change) to the base game. And another risk of the story getting too difficult to steer. Let's see if I manage to not trip over my own threads while weaving the story (I'm horrid at textiles. Maybe I should've picked a better metaphor).
> 
> Good job to those who theorised a connection to Dirthamen. I've been laying it on thick with the ravens and imagery. Some of Cole’s cryptic shit in past chapters probably make some sense now.
> 
> Also, I love Felassan, rip him from my cold dead hands. He and Briala were the best characters in The Masked Empire, no my mind cannot be changed. My bark-eating idiot <3
> 
> And may I just say, sorry to the people I end up nerding out to in paragraphs about literary techniques and the writing process of this fic and the characters. I get too excited sometimes. Thanks for putting up with me pft <3 Hope I didn't scare you off. (Mate, this note is already long, you're scaring them off already pfhaha)
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Ma uneolasas!:** You knew![⇧]  
> [2] **Ma tel’undirthas!:** You didn’t tell me![⇧]  
> [3] **Tel’unav’ahnas!:** You didn’t ask![⇧]  
> [4] **El’ras’amelan:** The Keepers of Secrets and Shadows. Can be shortened to El’amelan (Secret Keepers)[⇧]  
> [5] **Ras’virelan:** Shadow Walker[⇧]


	36. Blood in the promise

_brand me as your fool and traitor—_

* * *

Most of his companions had already gone on ahead back to Skyhold, Vivienne gone the earliest to help with the First Day celebration and the preparation for Halamshiral. A small group of them remained to escort the fragment of Clan Venalin on the Plains back to the main bulk of them in the Emerald Graves. Cole refused to leave Lavellan (he suspected Cole was watching over him which was touching, really), and Solas, Dorian, and Bull were familiar faces for the Dalish so they stayed.

Besides, Bull had already made friends in the clan. Loranil took a shining to Bull, and Lavellan couldn’t help but be reminded of an overexcited puppy eternally wagging its tail as he trailed after Bull. He wracked his head and tried to recall if Loranil and Bull had been friends in the past timeline but came up blank. Apparently, his poor head had limited capacity. To nobody’s surprise. Lavellan only hoped that the things he’d forgotten weren’t important details.

“So, it’s just us,” said Dorian.

“The dream team,” said Bull. “Get it? ‘Cause Solas― Never mind.”

“You are not funny,” Dorian grumbled.

Lavellan grinned. “I thought he was funny.”

Bull nodded at Lavellan. “There’s a man with taste.”

Solas rolled the drawings of the elven glyphs and tucked them carefully into his satchel, before passing it onto an elven scout. Lavellan eyed them. The scout was solemn as he nodded at Solas and accepted them.

He noticed Lavellan looking and scurried off. Solas looked back at Lavellan.

Lavellan plastered on a fake smile and gestured Solas over. He didn’t survive three years of attempted assassinations from Fen’Harel agents just to not notice when one was right there. So far, he'd tracked at least twenty agents in Skyhold.

He had a longer list.

There were at least fifty names on that list, names he'd remembered and jotted down, ever since Haven. Some of the agents he'd listed weren’t even in the Inquisition yet, but steadily, he’d been ticking them off once they'd shown up in the recruitment list. The numbers were growing. Nothing compared to the numbers during the Exalted Council, not yet. He also had a list for the agents outside of the Inquisition.

“One last hurrah?” he asked the group. Far, far too easy to put on a mask. Cole gave him an astute look but said nothing. “It’ll probably take three hours on the aravel. Bull, you good to ride horseback as escort?”

“Yeah. Don’t want your shiny halla attracting unwanted attention.”

“Just wave our staff around,” said Dorian. “Guaranteed to send any would-be bandits running.”

“Dorian, that’s dirty,” teased Bull.

“Vishante kaffas.”

Lavellan chuckled and shook his head, helped the Dalish load items into the aravels. Solas assisted Anaria onto hers, her hand rubbing her swollen belly as she offered Solas a grateful smile. The aravels fell into formation with the front aravel occupied by the Keeper, the central aravels carrying precious cargo and passengers. In their case, Anaria and Hanal’ghilan. The side and rear aravels acted as the first barriers of defence for the central aravels and usually carried the fighters.

The rest of Lavellan’s group stayed on the rear aravel. Loranil waved at them from the left flank aravel and Lavellan returned the enthusiastic greeting. Keeper Hawen had given Loranil the blessing to return with them to Skyhold, on the condition that he would reunite with the rest of Clan Venalin to say his farewells first.

Their journey began and Vergala followed overhead. Lavellan beamed as the aravels moved, the familiar rumble of the wheels beneath him plucking on the strings of nostalgic memories as it soothed through his bones.

“You seem happy,” remarked Dorian.

He laughed, carefree and spirited. “I haven’t ridden the aravels in a long time. Little things I'd taken for granted.” In his past life, he hadn’t met the rest of Clan Venalin. He couldn’t recall why. Maybe too busy? 

Solas remained quiet at the back, writing into a leather-bound journal with his charcoal while Cole sat beside him and watched. Solas occasionally glanced up at Lavellan. Then back to scribbling.

“Listing counterpoints for our next potential debate?” Lavellan asked and Solas’ lips twitched.

“I have no need to pre-prepare my counterpoints. I can keep up with you just fine.”

Lavellan smiled and scoffed, ready for a retort, but the Dalish started a call and response travel song and Lavellan gasped in recognition, joined them in glee.

Two hours into their trip, Lavellan nodded off.

He dreamt of ravens.

Violet eyes.

He woke with a start, breaths rapid. The aravel was still moving, and Solas was staring down at him, hand on Lavellan’s arm. Lavellan blinked, bleary, head heavy.

“Solas?” he rasped.

“We are close,” he said.

That woke Lavellan fully and he leapt up, rocking the small aravel as he rushed to the side and looked out into lush greenery of the Emerald Graves. Mighty trees reached for the skies, draped in curtains of ivy, vines and fern, the forest floor a sea of vivid green grass with a flotsam of wildflowers. Branches bowed and curved, writing their messages across the sky. 

Solas followed at a calmer pace, looking upon the forest with a soft hum. Dorian roused from his nap, yawned and stretched and took in his surroundings with a groggy look.

Lavellan relished the patch of warmth from the sunlight peering past the leaves, closed his eyes and smiled as the light burst behind his eyelids.

“It has changed much since I was last here,” murmured Solas.

“Was it just as beautiful?” Lavellan asked.

A pause.

Then, “It is different.”

Lavellan opened his eyes, beheld the forest. Blades of light fell in a dappled shower and painted the forest floor like a child who'd discovered the wonders of a paint and a brush and proceeded to splatter it upon every available surface. 

While the green of the Fade was strident, flaring like a broken sun, the green of the Emerald Graves was serene — a simple melody content to be bare and unornamented. 

“See how the light falls like rain past the spaces of the leaves?” Lavellan asked, quiet, as if he was speaking his first secret.

“Yes,” Solas returned, just as quiet. The aravel rumbled, the foliage rustling with the gentle exhales of wind, and wildlife called out into the forest.

“That’s one of my favourite sights,” said Lavellan.

Solas looked at him, meant to say something, but they spotted the expanded aravels in the near distance, their canvases unfurled from within to act as small shelters or homes. The elves of Clan Venalin made a commotion at their arrival, yelling in relief, exclaiming their praises of the gods for the Keeper’s safe arrival.

They paused at the sight of the giant Qunari at the front.

And drew their weapons.

Lavellan sighed.

* * *

The Dalish kept a wary eye on them as Keeper Hawen discussed with the clan elders and vouched for Lavellan and the Inquisition’s hospitality, holding up Lindiranae’s talisman and gesturing at Hanal’ghilan.

They weren’t tied up at least, but the Dalish had still confiscated their weapons and herded Lavellan’s group off to one place, guarded by a few elves. Cole flitted around the clan unnoticed. 

“Suspicious lot, aren’t they?” Dorian asked.

“They have to be or they’d be dead,” said Lavellan. 

If Solas’ disapproval could manifest physically, Lavellan was sure it would have throttled him.

Other elves in the clan went about their day but they couldn’t stop themselves from sending their group glances.

Lavellan’s gaze fell on the group of young hunters — so young that they were still barefaced — working through drills by the edge of the clan’s encampment. They were being led by the adolescent girl who had mouthed off at him during his first encounter with Clan Venalin. What was her name? Revasha?

He watched their form and manoeuvres through a Warleader’s eyes and grumbled at the sloppiness of their elbow before their strikes. Revasha would probably bite his fingers off if he so much as offered advice though. Besides, he mustn’t take over another’s job. 

But wait, where was the Warleader? Lavellan’s stomach sank. Was their Warleader dead?

Furthermore, where were the older hunters? Lavellan searched but couldn’t find them. Rather, the ones he found were _too_ old. Even the elves guarding them looked far too old, closer to Keeper Hawen and Olafin’s age.

Lavellan frowned, searched and searched for the younger and experienced hunters, to no avail.

The bush behind them rustled. Bull stared at it, then parted the leaves.

A little boy peered at them, frozen in place. No, there were more. There were three of them, liquid eyes staring. Bull blinked. They blinked back.

“Da’lenen[1],” Lavellan scolded softly, “you shouldn’t be here. Your parents might get upset.”

“Mae says you’re Harellan,” the boy with the green eyes said to Lavellan. “She says you will bite.”

“Who am I, Fen’Harel?” Lavellan grumbled. The children’s eyes widened in fear and he quickly raised his arms in placation. “No, no, I was joking. It was a jest. Joking.”

Solas’ mood soured further.

“ _Are_ you Fen’Harel?” the little girl asked, dark-haired and freckled. 

“No,” Lavellan insisted. “Come now, do you really think Fen’Harel would joke that he’s Fen’Harel if he’s in disguise? That’s too obvious.”

They looked at each other and nodded as if that made perfect sense. 

“So who are you?” asked the other boy, meek, curls catching on the branches in the bush.

Lavellan smiled. “I am Mahanon of Clan Lavellan. No, I am not a Harellan,” he added once they opened their mouths, had already anticipated their next question. They closed their mouths.

“You could be lying,” said the little girl, squinting at him. She tried. The look missed the mark of suspicious and instead landed in the realm of endearing.

“Would someone who looks this princely be a liar?” asked Dorian, gesturing with a flourish at Lavellan.

Lavellan pulled a face. “Dorian, I’m caked in dirt.”

“A princely dirt-caked man.”

They stared at Dorian with mild apprehension. “You’ve got hair on your face,” said the little girl. 

“Can I touch it?” asked the boy.

“Uh,” said Dorian.

The little girl gasped and patted Bull’s cheek. “He’s got some too! It’s kind of rough.”

Bull looked at Lavellan with a plea in his eye. 

“Whoa, he’s got an eyepatch!”

“His head's so smooth!” said the curly-haired boy and patted Solas’ head. He looked ready to enter uthenera again. Lavellan pursed his lips in silent laughter, the only one untouched.

“Please don’t pull,” muttered Dorian as they patted his moustache. 

“Tundrast[2],” Lavellan reminded. 

He waited for their parents to appear and shriek and grab them and stop them from crawling all over them, but nobody batted an eye. Not even the elves who were guarding them.

“Hm,” he said.

“Do share,” said Solas, unimpressed as the children ran their hands over his head and cooed at how smooth it was.

“I think,” said Lavellan, “that we will be stuck with these children for a while.”

“Where are their parents?” Dorian muttered.

“They’re not going to come,” he said. “The children are meant to be here to torment us.”

Silent save for the children’s delighted squeals.

Dorian broke the silence and said, “I hate children. Maker forbid I touch or interact with a child in my life ever again.”

Vergala must have sensed their growing distress because she descended and perched on Lavellan’s shoulder and their starry-eyed looks transferred to him. Oh no.

“Whoa!”

The children overran him and Vergala cawed in alarm and flew off.

“Traitor,” he groaned. He got trampled on for nothing.

In the end, the clan leaders accepted their group, but by that time, night had fallen and the children had eviscerated them.

Bull closed his eye and muttered, “I am terrifying, I can make an adult man piss himself. I am scary.” He kept up this mantra while braided flowers hung off his horns and they couldn’t even make fun of him for it. 

Anaria approached and offered them a warm smile.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” she said. “We never get anywhere when old people argue.”

“Please,” said Solas, “you must be resting.”

She stretched her back with a scrunched expression. “I suppose so. I’m close, I think.”

“All the more reason for you to sit.”

“Come to the fire with us,” she invited. “The clan is throwing a small celebration for our safe return but you may stay with us even longer, if you need. You are welcome here.”

Keeper Hawen joined her, expression weary, but triumphant. “I have convinced the irritable ones, da’len.”

Lavellan laughed. “Begrudgingly?”

“Olafin’s word is well-respected. He has vouched for you as well. Come, rise.” His gaze fell on the flowers around Bull’s horns and he smiled. “Yellow. They mean friendship.”

“Oh,” said Bull, disposition doing a quick one-eighty. He grunted but it was softer at the edges. “That’s… fine, I guess.” Lavellan hid his smile. Oh yeah, could make a grown man piss himself alright. The terrible Iron Bull.

“Perhaps it would be best if we retained distance,” suggested Solas. “Make camp elsewhere. We do not wish to impose or become a source of discomfort.”

“What nonsense,” said Keeper Hawen. “Come, come, tell us your tales and dreams. I know a few who would love to hear them.”

Solas glanced down, morose. “I have spoken with many Dalish before, of my tales and dreams. They did not deign to listen. Mocked and rallied. This time will be no different.”

“Ah,” said Keeper Hawen and crouched. “It grieves me to hear this. I understand your apprehension now, da’len―” Solas’ lips twitched at the address but only Lavellan caught the movement― “but I will do my best to provide you with a voice tonight, should you wish to share it.”

Lavellan nudged Solas’ shoulder with his. He looked up at Lavellan, darkness and defeat lingering in the depths of his eyes. Lavellan offered him a small, encouraging smile.

 _Try_ , he wished to say. _Try_.

“You are a terrible influence,” Solas muttered. Lavellan beamed. “ _One_ story,” said Solas as he stood and Keeper Hawen smiled. 

“The floating citadel?” 

“We shall see.” 

Lavellan and his group rose. Bull agonised over what to do with the flowers and Dorian rolled his eyes, took them off his horns, and draped them around Bull’s neck instead.

They approached the central fire. Big enough for warmth, but not so big that it might attract unwanted attention. The cooks fussed over their dishes over smaller fires, the youths sat themselves in loose groups according to age groups or friends, and the rest milled about between the expanded aravels. He spied a few who were already asleep inside. A Dalish clan could be like a small village in its own right. 

He paused, absorbing the scene before him. Homesickness once again tore at his chest and he could image himself sitting with the hunters in Clan Lavellan, laughing and sharing jokes or arguing over who was the better shot.

Solas looked back when he noticed Lavellan had stopped. 

“Lethallin?” he asked. Lavellan shook his head and caught up. 

“Homesick, is all,” he said.

The four of them sat by the fire, shuffled, until Keeper Hawen dragged Solas by the back of his coat like a disgruntled cat would its young and it was a sight Lavellan never thought to see.

The children had taken a liking to Bull and they brought pretty much almost every child in the clan from the looks of it and off they went hauling Bull away.

“Mercy, Dorian―!” 

“Have fun,” Dorian called and chuckled. “Children sense it.”

“Which?”

“When someone’s actually a soft sod inside.”

“Did you see his face when he found out what the flowers meant?”

Dorian laughed. “He’s never going to take it off, I wager.”

“Oh no, I’m not taking that wager. I’ll lose.”

“A wise man you are.”

Lavellan stole a glance at Solas. He sat as if there was a metal rod down his spine and Lavellan pursed his lips, unsure if he wanted to suppress a grimace or nervous laughter. He hoped it would end well.

“He was drawing you.”

He swivelled his head towards Dorian. “What?”

“On the aravel. He was drawing you. Quite well too, actually.”

The leather-bound journal—

Lavellan turned his head away. “Oh?” he asked, feigning indifference.

Dorian threw his head back and laughed. “ _Oh_ , he says. I see that smile you’re fighting to hold back.”

_“What are you doing?” Lavellan asked, bleary as he awoke to the soft morning light scattering colour across the room from the stained glass of his balcony doors. Solas was already up, leaning against the headboard, a strip of red and orange light gilding his collarbones. He w as writing into a leather-bound journal._

_“Good morning,” Solas greeted and smiled, closed the book and set it down so he could comb his fingers through Lavellan’s hair. Lavellan smiled back._

_“Morning.”_

_“Sleep well?”_

_He hummed, smile widening. “How could I not? You exhausted me last night.” His gaze fell on the leather-bound journal on Solas’ lap. “Were you writing?”_

_“Drawing.”_

_“What?”_

_“You.”_

_He sputtered._

_“You looked endearing. I wished to capture the moment.”_

_Lavellan buried his face into the pillow. “Was I drooling?” he asked, muffled._

_“Yes, quite. I feared Skyhold would flood with how—”_

_Lavellan rose and hit his face with the pillow._

The memory was simple, faded and blurred, vignetted with light, yet Lavellan recalled the lazy warmth with ease.

And here came the inevitable descent of his heart twisting.

His smile faded. Hadn’t realised he was smiling in the first place. Dorian stared at him, worry dancing as the firelight did in his eyes.

“You _are_ allowed to be happy about that, you know?” asked Dorian.

 _Believe me, I’d like for it to stay that way_ , he didn’t say. Instead said, “I know.”

Silence elapsed.

A sharp stare prickled on his nape. He glanced over his shoulder and met Revasha’s intense look. She held his gaze in challenge, squinted, before she looked away and listened to the rest of her peers speaking. Lavellan frowned. What?

They stayed quiet by the fire for a moment longer before a little girl came up to Dorian and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Um, excuse me?” she asked.

Dorian blinked at her. “Er, hi, yes? Was there something you needed?”

“The mor’sa said you know how to make lightning?”

“The who?”

“Big one,” translated Lavellan. “Bull, I think.”

“I want to make lightning in a bottle,” she said. “The Keeper doesn’t do lightning. Is it possible?” She bit her lip, shuffled her feet, a tad timid. It must have taken her a great deal of courage to approach Dorian.

Dorian stared at her for a moment before he smiled and clapped his hands. “Why not? Tell me of this lightning in a bottle plan of yours.”

Her face lit up and she grabbed Dorian’s arm and hauled him up. He sent Lavellan an apologetic look but Lavellan chuckled and waved him off as the little girl dragged him away. Lavellan contented himself with staring at the fire, occasionally watching Solas cautiously tell his story. Solas relaxed as time passed, the tense line of his shoulders slackening. His gestures grew larger, expression even softening into a faint smile.

Lavellan found himself alone for a good long while and he had an idea why.

The rumours were still around. _Harellan_ , they said. Traitor to one’s kin. Traitor to his clan. It… stung, he would admit. A little. 

Home but not quite.

Nobody approached him. Instead kept a wary eye on him. So he remained on his log and stared at the fire and busied himself with playing with a blade of grass, recalled Felassan doing the same in his memories as they spoke.

He looked up, blinked at the stars, chest aching.

The night wore on. A few approached him and made polite conversation but he sensed the skittishness.

He glanced at Solas once more. Solas was now using his magic to create simple images to accompany his stories. Maybe Lavellan could go up and listen. It looked interesting. Better than moping here and plucking away at the grass.

Solas was smiling. He suddenly seemed much younger.

Lavellan watched from a distance instead.

The Dalish started a dance around the fire at one point and he hummed along to the song, otherwise wishing he could join, but suspected that would make them uncomfortable and that was the last thing he wanted. So he stayed. And watched. And gave it all a sad smile.

He missed Clan Lavellan.

He missed home.

Amidst the merriment, he slipped away into the darkness of the forest.

* * *

His leg swung as it hung off the branch he was resting on, his other leg pulled up to his chest so he could rest his elbow on it. Vergala perched herself on the space just ahead of him. It was quiet. The sounds of the celebration was faint, could always be lost to the howling of the wind. Lavellan’s head fell back against the tree trunk.

He stared at the stars instead.

It was a little pathetic how quickly he fell into loneliness. He who had so enjoyed solitude when he was younger. Now look at him. 

Whoever he was.

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend the cheers of the Dalish in the distance were coming from his clan. That if he were to walk back, Ellana would be there, sharing an interesting thing she'd learned for that day. Aenoreir would present his daily challenge. His hunters would discuss the winter’s rations with him, which hunts to prioritise, measures to protect against bandits and how secure they would be camping outside a certain settlement. The smell of rabbit stew and salted boar. Taste of bread with honey on his lips. Children’s laughter as they demanded he tell them a story or teach them how to use a bow.

> _A view of the sea from the mountains surrounded by vibrant trees. Flowers teem along the walls. It is our home, away from the rest of the world, and the eluvians shimmer like the tyrian of a violent sunset._
> 
> _“Ras, the varterral’s gone clingy again.”_
> 
> _“I told you to stop feeding it, Vedir.”_
> 
> _“But it’s so cute.”_
> 
> _“You have a strange definition of cute.”_

Lavellan blinked, settled back into the present like a twirling leaf resting on a calm lake. That was… interesting. Triggered by homesickness?

Something in him was longing for two different homes.

A soft footfall caught his ears. Swift. Practiced. If he were anybody else, Lavellan wouldn’t have heard it. Steps like a hunter. Hm, heavy on the left foot, weight in left hand. Bow, probably. 

“If you plan to shoot me, then you’ve had better ideas,” he called out though he was unsure who they were.

Silence. Lavellan waited, didn’t bother looking.

An indignant huff.

“How did you know? I was quiet!”

He turned his head and looked down. It was Revasha.

“I’ve thwarted would-be assassins for years. I like to think I've picked things up.”

She frowned. “What?”

Lavellan waved her off. “Don’t worry. Go back before you worry anyone.”

“Why are you out here?” she asked, suspicion laced within her tone. He smiled at her.

“Ah, I see. You see the suspicious elf sneaking out and assume the worst. Don’t worry, he just wanted to roam the forest and climb a tree and avoid being shot at by a huntress. Whatever conjecture you have is false.”

“I wasn’t trying to shoot at you,” she said. “I just don’t go anywhere without the bow.”

“Relieving. Off you go on your merry way then.”

Revasha didn’t move. He sighed.

“Is there something else?”

“You’re strange,” she said. 

“Very astute, thank you. Anything else?”

“Stop patronising me,” she snapped.

Lavellan stared at her, proud and furious, a whirlwind of fire and storms and for a moment, Lavellan saw himself in his youth. Though less tempestuous. Definitely proud. 

_His plan had failed. He bit his lip until it bled and weathered the scolding from the Warleader for such a risky strategy, his head bowed. It had failed. Damn it all, it had failed. They lost the deer. They needed the deer._

“I wasn’t,” he said. “But mind your temper. A good Warleader needs to be able to keep a level head.”

“I―” She frowned. “You think I’m the Warleader?”

“You’ve been leading the drills. You seem a little young, though. Where are your older hunters?”

“Most of them died defending us from the shems,” she said, forced her voice to be steady but he caught the slight waver and his disposition softened. “The others have gone off with our First to some ruin deeper in the Graves. My mother… She was the Warleader.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lavellan and meant it. “We helped Keeper Hawen bury some of your dead in Var Bellanaris. Was your mother among them?”

“She was. And my father.” Oh, shit. Her stance relaxed, slightly. “Do you think I’ll make a good Warleader?”

“You have the potential,” he replied truthfully, “but your temper and pride worry me.” The firestorm twisted her expression once more. “Pride is good to be assured. You need to be assured. But never let it hinder your ability to listen. Anger is good for when you need it to protect. Otherwise, it dulls your senses and your focus.”

“Your advice is unsolicited, Harellan,” she said.

His expression hardened at the term. “Ir abelas, da’len. Begone then.”

She still stayed there. Lavellan ignored her and stared back out into the forests. The Freemen of the Dales were somewhere further south. Clan Venalin had to be careful, especially if they lacked experienced hunters.

“You don’t deny it,” she said. “When I call you Harellan. You don’t deny it.” She frowned up at him in uncertainty. “Are you really?”

“I know it to be false and I take comfort in that. I don’t care what others say about it. Call me traitor all you want. I know it’s not true.”

“You’re strange,” she said again.

“You’ll have to pardon me if I’m not feeling up to being insulted right now. Leave me be.”

“No, you― You feel strange. You’re not who you say you are.”

Lavellan merely stared at her, thought that over. “Who do you think I am? Please don’t say Fen’Harel, that’s just unoriginal.”

She glared. “I don’t think you’re the Dread Wolf. I’m not stupid. But there’s something not right about you.” Lavellan stood and walked on the branch, hands behind his back. It was thick and sturdy enough to support him. “Is it because you’ve been around shems too long?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t answer you because I don’t even know what you’re asking. Whatever you deem isn’t right about me, I don’t want to hear it either.” He crossed over to the opposite tree’s branch and followed that down to the trunk since it connected at a spot low enough that he could hop off without pain. “I’m going, don’t follow me.”

Vergala took off from the tree and perched on his shoulder.

“Wait,” Revasha called out and Lavellan groaned.

“Creators, you don’t know when to give up, do you? What do you want?”

She held her ground and looked up at him, steadfast. “Teach me,” she said.

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve known your Inquisition has been on the Plains even before we'd met. I scouted. To make sure the shemlens wouldn’t come near us and to find where they never went. Then you and your soldiers came. I’ve been following you all for a while, and I’ve seen you fight. The Keeper also said you used to be the Warleader of Clan Lavellan. Everyone knows that Clan Lavellan has a history of raising good hunters.” Revasha clenched her fists and her shoulders rose. “Teach me how to fight. How to be a Warleader.”

Lavellan stared at her, somewhat stunned.

“And teach me how to walk as quietly as you do,” she grumbled. “And how to hear the softest things as you do.”

A tense silence stretched between them. Then he breathed out a short laugh.

“I’m pretty sure that’s demanding, not asking,” he said. 

“Fine, _please_ teach me.”

Lavellan considered her. Her lips were pressed. How long had she wanted to ask this? 

“You’ve been a little rude, da’len,” he said. “Why should I?”

“I—” Revasha looked down at her feet, hands fisted by her sides. “I need to be stronger to protect the clan.”

He blinked, unmoved. Revasha rubbed her arm and looked up at him, mouth pulled.

“Ir abelas, hahren,” she said. Hahren. Damn, he felt old. “My manners have been poor. Will you please take me as a student?”

Lavellan stared, stayed quiet and stretched the moment until she fidgeted. Only then did he answer.

“Lesson one done, you’ve swallowed your pride,” he said and her eyes lit in tentative hope. He smiled. “Your left foot is heavy, did you know?”

* * *

It was almost dawn. The sky was lilac and he took a moment to admire how solemn the trees stood as they saluted the coming day. Lavellan slipped his coat on and ran the logistics of today’s lesson with Revasha.

A rustle behind him, approaching footsteps. Solas. Confirmed by the soft tones of the wooden wolves.

“You’re up early,” Lavellan remarked. 

“As are you.” He paused. “Unless you did not sleep?”

“I slept,” he said. 

“Good.” Lavellan could almost hear him tilting his head in curiosity. “I did not see you last night. I expected you would be more involved with the festivities seeing as you have been homesick for quite some time.” He made a soft noise. Almost a scoff, but not quite. “I believe I may have spent more time with the Dalish than you, the actual Dalish elf.”

Lavellan straightened his coat and sent him a small smile. “I wasn’t approached. They’ve been treating me with caution.”

He frowned, eyes grey in the morning light. “Why? You are one of them. I thought they might appreciate a familiar face.”

“There were rumours,” said Lavellan as he retrieved his armguard, “that I am Harellan.”

“What?” he bit out. “You are no traitor. You have―” He cut himself off with an incensed shake off his head. Lavellan’s smile turned amused. Was he angry on Lavellan’s behalf or was he seeing too much of himself in Lavellan? His grip on his staff tightened at Lavellan’s smile. “Why are you smiling? Are you not angered?”

“No.” His smile faded into something hurt. “Lonely? Yes.”

His expression fell. It was not an obvious change, but Lavellan had long since been attuned to him. Most times.

“Do they not understand the lengths you have gone through to ensure their safety? Their happiness?” asked Solas. “You worked ceaselessly and without complaint for their sake and this is how they repay you? By shunning you?” His voice rose in its familiar fevered pitch as it became impassioned. “By spreading false rumours and reviling you?”

Lavellan’s heart ached. He wasn’t just talking about Lavellan, was he?

“Solas,” he murmured, placed his hand on Solas' shoulder to calm him. “It’s alright.”

“No, it is not,” he hissed. “I will not content myself watching you bleed out for your people who would not even deign to acknowledge your efforts or thank you.”

“I don’t do it to be thanked. I’ve long known this is a thankless job.”

“That is not the point!”

“What, then?” asked Lavellan.

“The point is that you have people who have vouched for your sincerity and yet they would still dare to pin their suspicions upon you. They are your own people and yet― You do not deserve this kind of treatment, you—” He sighed, turned away and closed his eyes, Lavellan’s hand falling off his shoulders as he stepped back. “Ir abelas, lethallin. I am… cross.”

“I see that,” Lavellan said with a small smile but he hadn’t the strength to maintain it. “It stung, yes. It should have felt like home and yet it wasn’t. It wasn’t the same.” The hidden regrets resurfaced in Solas’ eyes. “Instead of open arms and dances and songs around the fire, I was sequestered, left alone, maybe even feared.”

“And you are fine with this?” Solas asked, bordered on hurt.

“No,” Lavellan admitted softly. “No, I’m not fine. Who would be? But it’ll be alright. I understand their suspicion and I know why it’s necessary for them to be so. But at this point, the Dalish treasure actions over words. I know I’m no traitor but how can _they_ be sure? I have to build trust first.”

“But you have helped. They know it.”

“I’d suspect a hidden agenda, if I were them. We were betrayed by acts of apparent kindness one too many times.” He took his bow and slung it over his back. “It’ll take some time.”

“How can one build trust when they will not even approach you?”

Footsteps, attempted to be soft, but again, left foot. Too heavy. 

“Revasha, left,” Lavellan reminded without looking.

Revasha appeared from behind a tree, scowling with a huff, geared and ready. She crossed her arms and cursed. 

“I thought I had you.”

“Not when you stomp around like a bronto.”

Her expression soured. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead, I’ll be there soon.”

She frowned at him, then at Solas, before she turned and walked off. Lavellan clipped his belt around his waist and stretched, shook out his limbs to loosen them, and faced Solas again.

“Well, I’ll be going,” he said.

“Where to?”

“She wants to be taught so I’ll teach her,” he said. “And to answer your question, you’re right. But there are always those willing to reach out to you, who are curious or otherwise. Not everyone is alike. There’s always that one person willing to listen.” He smiled. “You reach out to them, and they reach out to others.”

“That is not always the case,” murmured Solas.

“No,” agreed Lavellan. “But sometimes, it is. Who would’ve thought the teenager snapping at me would’ve liked to learn something? People can surprise you.”

He stared at Lavellan, something unrecognisable shimmering in his eyes, and Lavellan could only hope it was introspection.

Lavellan smiled and bumped his shoulder. “I saw you telling your stories. You looked like you were having fun.”

Solas frowned to himself. “It… Yes. To an extent.”

“I'm glad,” he said. “You have wondrous things to share. I’m glad you were able to.”

Solas stared at him, frown easing. “You could have sat in. I believe you would have enjoyed the story.”

“I didn’t want to intrude,” he said.

“You could never,” said Solas.

Lavellan looked away, absentmindedly admitted, “I like keeping our storytelling sessions between us.” He stilled at the admission, the tip of his ears warming. Hurriedly amended, “Not that I want you to stop telling other people stories. That’s not what I meant. Keep doing that. I simply meant—”

Solas was smiling.

“I need to—” He gestured behind him. "Revasha’s lessons. She’s waiting.”

Lavellan excused himself. Could still feel Solas’ eyes on him as he walked away. _Walked away_. Not fled. Never fled. That was— Ridiculous. It was a dignified exit.

* * *

Lavellan meant to stay at the Emerald Graves for only two more days, but lessons with Revasha had gone on for a week and that took them to almost the end of the month. Almost the end of the year. He let out a breath. Five months since the Conclave.

Five months since the end of the world.

Well, they would have to leave soon regardless. Preparations for Halamshiral and all.

Dorian plopped himself down next to Lavellan. He and Bull had spent some time with the Dalish too, mostly with the children, which had endeared them to the clan. Solas on the other hand, spoke often with the elders. At some point, the Hahren of the clan had let Solas take one class and Lavellan had warmed at how… happy Solas seemed. At ease, at least. Teaching always made him happy. Cole lingered around Anaria because of her struggles during the last leg of her pregnancy.

“So,” chirped Dorian, “We’re leaving tomorrow? Cutting it close, dear Inquisitor. Josephine will fuss if you aren’t there for the First Day festivities.”

Lavellan sensed a lurking presence. Revasha. So then, where could she be?

“Cutting it close has literally been my whole life,” he said.

Felt eyes on him. 

“Quite,” said Dorian. “We had a thought of setting up early Inquisition presence. You say you plan to come back for the Freemen after the peace talks.”

“They’re further south, I think. Near the villas. We’re also waiting on Fairbanks.” Lavellan watched the trees. Would she climb? “I don’t like the idea of the Dalish being too close to the Freemen.”

He couldn’t sense her. Lavellan smiled to himself. Fast-learner. 

Left foot heavy. 

Well, still some ways to go.

“Excuse me,” Lavellan said to Dorian and he stood, sidestepped just as Revasha roared and lunged at him from the bushes. Dorian shrieked and cursed in Tevene. She crashed on the ground in front of Lavellan and groaned in frustration, glared up at him as she slowly stood, dusting herself off with a grumble. She smacked her braid out of her face.

“You got impatient,” he said. “Don’t undo all the work your patience has done. I know it’s easy to feel like you need to hurry but keep your pace. I wasn’t able to find you earlier.”

She pulled a twig out her braid and huffed. “Was it the left foot?”

“As always.”

“Urgh!” She kicked at the ground.

“Temper, da’vherassan[3],” he reminded sternly. “Breathe. Count back from ten.”

Revasha still thought the technique stupid but she did it anyway after he had threatened to walk out if she wouldn’t listen to him. 

She calmed enough at least.

“You’re leaving soon?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Will you be back within two months?” she asked

Next month was Wintermarch and that would mostly be full of Halamshiral preparations. The peace talks would be held the month after.

“Likely,” he said. “You have all that time. If I come back and see you still limp your elbow like a giant’s sagging scrotum, I’m making you repeat fifteen cycles of Man’alas’nirash[4] under a waterfall.”

“Twenty,” she challenged.

He raised a brow. “Mar din[5].”

She grinned, wild and threatening. “Vhalla’palahnash[6], hahren.”

Lavellan was pretty sure she meant hahren as ‘old man’ more than ‘mentor’

“Go on,” he said. “That’s it for today. Say goodbye to me tomorrow before we leave, otherwise, I’ll cry on you.”

“Leave now,” she grumbled. 

“You wound me.” He waved her off. “Go. Pass on what you learned to your fellow hunters. Teaching is the best way to learn.”

“Don’t die,” she said.

“Don’t plan to,” he returned.

Revasha shrugged one shoulder and walked off. Well, that was the most respectful she was going to get. When he turned back to Dorian, Solas and Bull had already arrived.

“Cole?” inquired Lavellan.

“With Anaria, as always,” said Solas. “The prospect of new life fascinates him.”

“Speaking of fascinating," said Dorian. "You have a very unorthodox mentor-mentee relationship with your newest… protégé."

“How?”

“It feels like you have to fight to get her attention, and even then, barely,” said Dorian and chuckled. “I thought she disliked you.”

“She’s like that with everything,” said Lavellan. “And it’s not that hard to get her to listen. You just need to match your bite to your bark and not baby her. Have the Inquisition scouts arrived?”

“First of them,” said Bull. “Met up with Harding. They’re near the stream, bit west of here.”

Lavellan nodded. He and Dorian went on ahead to the camp to share intel with Scout Harding while Bull and Solas stayed behind to present the crafting materials the Inquisition was offering as a gesture of peace to the Dalish. Lavellan had picked out the materials himself. The Dalish were still wary of him though, hence why Bull and Solas were the representatives so the clan would trust the intention behind it. 

It was comical. They trusted the Dread Wolf more than Lavellan. What a strange turn of events. He was sure Solas was having a secret laugh.

The Inquisition set up at the remnants of an ancient elven fortress, though calling it that was generous. Only three walls stood with their large arches, stones overgrown with ivy and vines, the roof long gone which had left the interior exposed to the elements. The forest had reclaimed the floor. Patches of wildflowers swayed in the breeze. 

And in the middle was the large statue of a wolf.

Lavellan stared at its impassive face.

There were wolves everywhere in the Dales. Fascinating though. These wolves likely had roots as protectors, guardians, and he wouldn’t be surprised if in his early days, Fen’Harel had been more of a protector than a trickster. No, not Fen’Harel. Solas. Solas was first. Fen’Harel was later.

Lavellan found himself patting the wolf’s snout, frowning at it. 

Pulses of pain lanced through his head with every heartbeat. 

> _“Rajelan [7], it seems there’s been a conflict of interest,” says Felassan._
> 
> _He frowns at Felassan, directs that frown to me, eyes like crystal and back as upright and rigid as a brittle arrow. His vallaslin is the same green as his magic._
> 
> _“El’ras’amelan,” greets he, voice more lyrical than I expect, like silk fluttering to the floor. “It is rare for one of your order to come into the light. What conflict of interest might there have been?”_

He staggered back, blinked, that memory foggier than those which had preceded it. 

Who…?

“Inquisitor!” Scout Harding greeted and Lavellan snapped out of it.

“Scout Harding,” he greeted. “What’s the situation?”

They discussed the state of the Dales while Lavellan updated her on the Dalish and their information on the Freemen. After the talk, Lavellan roamed the crumbled fortress and inspected it, brushing his hand over the ancient stones.

Another pulsing headache.

> _Stone after stone, pushed into place by shaky hands, unaided by magic because their mana has been exhausted._
> 
> _It will be beautiful once it’s finished._
> 
> _One slave lags behind. A lash on the back. It won't heal right no matter the manner of healing magic. It’s meant to mark. Meant to mar the skin. June’s vallaslin twists as they cry out in pain and our eyes lock, their hands reaching for me, pleading._
> 
> _Dirthamen places his hand on my back and pulls me away._
> 
> _“Come,” he says. “You are better than them.”_
> 
> _“Why?”_
> 
> _He smiles. “Because you are mine.”_
> 
> _I smile back, his brand on my face, down my neck, over my chest, stretching down to my hips. Golden and bright._
> 
> _“I am yours,” I swear._
> 
> _Blood seeps into the stones. Later, they will wash it away with magic and it’s like it never happened._

Lavellan drew his hand back as if he had been burned and nausea flipped his stomach, his chest tight, a crawl of roiling disgust flickering over his skin. The stones in front of him were grey. Faded. 

Bloodstained. 

And he'd been complicit. 

His hands fell on his face once more, tracing the vallaslin curving over his cheeks with trembling fingers.

Worse than that.

Lavellan had closed the fetters over his wrists himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian: I hate children  
> Five seconds later, makes lightning in a bottle for a child. Sure, Dorian. Sure. You're just as bad as Bull.
> 
> "The Dalish are so suspicious and mean and paranoid!!"  
> Nope, they're just trying to survive and they have to be extra careful because there's no shortage of idiots who wish to do them harm. Outsiders don't exactly have a good track record of being nice to them. They literally never got a break over the course of history.
> 
> (psst, hey, curious about what Lavellan's romance with Solas was like in the past timeline? Curious about what Lavellan was like when he was younger and actually got sleep? Well wonder no more! Get a glimpse for yourself -> [When the World Was Ours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964/chapters/64242307). It hits different, man, it just hits different).
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Da'lenen:** Children[⇧]  
> [2] **Tundrast:** Gently[⇧]  
> [3] **Da'vherassan:** Little tiger (lit. little arrow cat)[⇧]  
> [4] **Man'alas'nirash:** Water Dance – a type of Dalish fighting style[⇧]  
> [5] **Mar din:** Your funeral (lit. your end)[⇧]  
> [6] **Vhalla'palahnash:** You’re on (lit. accept challenge)[⇧]  
> [7] **Rajelan:** Commander[⇧]


	37. Fevered in your fervour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've broken the 200k word mark *toots kazoo*
> 
> Imma take a small moment to say I appreciate the people reading and enjoying this. Seeing your comments make me overjoyed to the point that I have to flap my hands just to give all that excitement an outlet. I'm glad I can give some of you something to look forward to during the week :)) <3 Writing a big project like this is always in danger of feeling like a chore, but interacting with you guys and reading your thoughts about this fic is a really good motivator and keeps things fun and engaging.
> 
> tl;dr y'all are fantastic, thank you

_sweeping golden in ardour—_

* * *

“It always impresses me,” said Dorian.

Lavellan looked up from his conflicted stupor, had been sulking on the crumbled steps after retrieving the fragments of his memories.

“What does?” he asked.

Dorian examined the ruined fortress. “What the ancient elves accomplished. Even now, thousands of years later, you get a little glimpse. It must have been a sight to behold.” Sure, but at what cost? “Do you miss it?”

“Which?”

“The elven empire,” he said.

“I can’t miss what I never had,” he meant to say, but he did have it. Not that he remembered much of it. Still. “No,” he said instead. 

Dorian blinked. “No?”

“If I am to miss anything about Elvhenan, it’s the fact that the elves had a home and their history is intact. But at the end of the day, it’s an empire.”

“That… Is that a bad thing?”

“There were no humans then. Only elves.” Lavellan stared at Dorian. “So then, who scrubbed the floors? Who built the palaces?”

His eyes shimmered with understanding. “Elves,” he concluded.

“Slaves,” corrected Lavellan. “No. I don’t miss Elvhenan. Not as it was.”

“To be fair, slaves then likely received better treatment than the alienage elves now.”

His fists clenched, heat rising in his chest. The skin around his vallaslin pulled, as if the ink had carved trenches into his flesh. 

It was hilarious, truly hilarious, that he'd chosen Dirthamen’s vallaslin again.

He wanted to puke.

“It’s not about how they’re treated,” he said, struggled to keep his voice even and composed. “It’s the principle of the matter. Slavery in and of itself is wrong, no matter what angle you tackle it. You take away their choice.”

Dorian scowled. “Pray tell me then, did the elves and humans in the alienage and slums choose to be destitute and impoverished? There’s no way out for them, but back home, a poor man can sell himself. Slaves can have positions of respect, comfort, support a family. It’s true that some are treated poorly, but you can’t possibly believe inescapable poverty to be better?”

“Positions of respect?” Lavellan spat. “You pit them against each other! You make them believe that there’s a way out if they try hard enough even though the entire system is rigged against them! It’s an illusion of a choice, Dorian.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but people are pitted against each other constantly in Tevinter,” he spat right back. “It’s kind of the culture, Inquisitor. No matter which echelon of society you belong to. It’s why I want to change things.”

“Why? So you can continue to have slaves but oh, good job, all good, they’re comfortable, right?”

“I’m sorry, would you rather they die of starvation?” he asked, disbelieving. “So they can be _free_? You would prioritise your principles and ideals over the practicality of the situation? You would prefer it if people died but that’s alright, they died free. They must be supremely happy about this.” His grip on his staff tightened and his eyes sparked in fury. “You mustn’t believe every story about Tevinter excess. Most slaves are treated well. Better, even, compared to some of your poorest. Abuse of power isn’t uncommon, but it’s hardly limited to Tevinter.”

“I’m not saying one’s better than the other!” Lavellan snapped, his volume raising. “Why is this an either-or situation? That’s not the point I’m getting at. You relinquish personhood when you become a slave! Survival isn’t all there is to life, Dorian. We’re not simple animals, not pets to be leashed and detained and fed in regular interval just to be kept alive and working. You say it’s better than poverty. _Why_ is there poverty, Dorian? Why is slavery the next best solution instead of, I don’t know, paying them for their labour?”

“You think I don’t know how deep the systemic corruption within Tevinter runs?” He gritted his teeth. “Fasta vass, that’s the whole reason I want things to change.”

 _Change_.

“Change?” Lavellan scoffed. “You really think things will change if you press on with that outlook? Sure it’ll change. You’ll change the colour of the fucking curtains instead of ripping the thing down.”

“I am not trying to promote anarchy! What good will it do trying to heap chaos upon more chaos?”

“I’m not talking,” he said through clenched teeth, “about your stupid government. I’m talking about the issue with believing slavery to be a perfectly alright thing to do to people. People. Notice me saying people, Dorian? Because guess what slavery does to them? It makes them objects! Things!”

His shoulders tensed. Everything in him was rigid, held tight, fit to erupt. His vallaslin burned.

“Poverty is shit, slavery is shit, and I’m not saying one is better than the other. But the thing with slavery is that you’re making living, breathing, _feeling_ people into objects to be owned and sold and used. You can dress them up in silks, you can fill them up with food, you can show them all your golden walls. But know this.” He took a step closer, teeth gnashed and all but yelling, finger stabbing into Dorian’s chest. “They will feel their shackles. They will feel their chains. It will burn them from the inside. How many slaves does your family own Dorian?”

Dorian pursed his lips. Silent.

“How. Many?”

Then, softly, “I don’t know.”

“Do you even see them? Or do they flit past your vision as if they were ghosts? Had I been a slave, would you even notice me?”

He stayed quiet.

The tightness in Lavellan tangled into a knot, clogged his throat, but he pushed through. His eyes burned. Wet. He blinked it away even as his lips twisted into an ugly snarl and fire fell from his tongue.

“People are not things,” he hissed. “ _We_ are not things.” His voice cracked and he fisted his hands into the fabric of Dorian’s robes. “That is what slavery does. It erases who you are, who you could be. Nobody deserves to become property. Nobody deserves to be owned or ruled by anyone other than themselves.” He grabbed the string around Dorian’s neck and yanked out the carving, gripped it tight between his fingers and raised it between them. “I didn’t give you this so you can perpetuate a system meant to go nowhere. So you can change the curtains from blue to purple. So you can continue patting yourselves on the back for presenting people poison in a golden cup.”

Lavellan let it fall back against Dorian’s chest. Dorian said nothing, brows pulled, unable to look Lavellan in the eye. The whole area was quiet. They had drawn the eyes of the Inquisition scouts but he didn’t care. Let them hear it too. 

“If our friendship truly means anything to you,” he said, hating how his voice cracked, “then I hope you have a long think about what I said. And if you still truly believe slavery is fine after all that…” Lavellan took a step back, gave him a broken look. “Then from now on, whenever you see me, I want you to envision shackles around my neck.”

Dorian’s eyes widened and the revulsion in his expression should have given Lavellan satisfaction.

It didn’t.

The silence was heavy. Even the forest seemed choked.

Lavellan’s vision blurred, the space between his brows aching from how they'd scrunched as he held back his tears. Everyone stared. When he looked, they averted their gazes.

Solas and Bull had arrived. Maybe since a while ago and Lavellan just never noticed. From the grim looks on their faces, they probably heard most of the thing. Humiliation brought a fresh bout of heat to his already flushed skin, the tips of his ears aflame. Humiliated because Solas was looking right at him as if Lavellan had torn Solas’ heart out and forced him to eat it and because Solas had actually fought to abolish slavery and Lavellan was the one who'd willingly walked into it and had ignored pleas for help.

The vallaslin burned on his face.

The vallaslin had long burned his face.

Lavellan tore his gaze away. He needed to get away from here. Away from all their stares and away from the fortress built by bloodied hands and torn nailbeds.

He roughly wiped any stray tears away and fled.

* * *

Lavellan found a wolf statue directly beneath the force of a waterfall, but the water never wore away at the stone, the statue remaining as immaculate as the day it was carved. He stared at its impassive face before he walked towards the bank, toed off his boots and shed his coat and weapons, and waded into the waist-deep water.

He hoisted himself up onto the statue’s base and leaned back against the wolf, hugging his knees to his chest. Whether it was meant to represent Fen’Harel or the wolves who had stood with the Emerald Knights, it didn’t matter. He felt safe with it.

The roar of the waterfall drowned out his own thoughts, cold water washing over his back and soaking his hair.

He stayed until his chest no longer felt constricted, until the vallaslin stopped burning. 

The vallaslin.

Lavellan closed his eyes.

“We are the Dalish,” he said, words lacing with the sound of roaring water, “walkers of the lonely path, keepers of the lost lore. We are the last of the Elvhenan.”

He opened his eyes. Solas was standing in front of him, the water lapping around his waist. Vergala cawed nearby. Must have led Solas here. Clever Vergala, always looking out for Lavellan.

Lavellan kept his gaze steady on Solas as he said, “Never again shall we submit.”

Rush of water, burbling stream.

Solas looked at the wolf statue, asking a silent question. Lavellan smiled and leaned his head back against it, blinked away errant droplets of water.

“We’re both outcasts apparently,” he said with a wry smile. Shrugged. “Or maybe they’re the guardian wolves of the Emerald Knights. Either way… It felt safe.”

“Lethallin,” said Solas, so soft it was almost overpowered by the falls, “come down. Let us get you dried and warm.”

Lavellan stared at him in quiet.

Solas sighed and took a step closer, wading through the water as if it were nothing, and offered his hand.

“Please?” he asked, gaze and voice kind. Lavellan’s heart jumped. He suspected it would keep jumping even if it were dead because that was how stupid it was. As stupid as him because he took Solas’ hand.

From a stone wolf to the actual Wolf. Lavellan jumped into the stream, the waters cool around his waist and as it seeped through his clothes. Water from his hair dripped down his back.

“Come,” said Solas and he guided Lavellan back to shore. A new towel awaited along with his coat and weapons. Solas placed the towel over his hair and wrung the excess water out. Lavellan frowned.

“I can do it,” he said, grimaced at how rough his voice was.

“You would scrub at it,” he grumbled. “I have seen how you dry your hair. You will damage it.”

“The bald man is judging how I dry my hair.” Lavellan had taken better care of it before, just never saw the point of it after he'd cut it short since the world was ending anyhow. Rather, he'd stopped caring.

Had stopped caring about a lot of things.

“I was not always bald,” said Solas, gentle as he dried Lavellan’s hair.

“Why did you shave it?”

“It was simpler to rid myself of it altogether,” he answered, but there was more it, judging by the tone of his voice. He didn’t expand.

“If you choose to grow it out again, can I braid it?” asked Lavellan.

Solas’ hands stilled, their warmth seeping into Lavellan’s cold skin. Sometimes, Solas would burn like a great hearth, and Lavellan would hold him tight as if he were burrowing deeper into that warmth. Solas placed the towel around Lavellan’s shoulders. 

“If I choose to,” Solas finally said, rolling a strand of Lavellan’s hair between his fingers, a drop of water sliding down and over his wrist. “If you choose to grow yours out, may I braid it?”

“If I choose to,” Lavellan echoed. 

It felt a little like a promise between them. He wasn’t sure what the promise was. 

Solas let go of his hair. “How do you feel?” he asked, attempting a small smile. “It feels a little strange not being the one your ire is directed at.”

“I’m a little fresh out of ire for the moment, Solas. Terribly sorry, you’ll have to get in line.” The delivery fell flat. Lavellan sighed and wrapped the towel tighter around himself, not because of the cold, but because of the safety it offered. He wanted to burrow into something warm.

 _Solas is warm,_ whispered a small, hopeful voice. 

Of course he was warm. Solas was a wildfire. 

“What started it?” asked Solas. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Lavellan could feel the stone under his hands, see the desperation in that slave’s eyes, Dirthamen’s hand on his back searing through skin.

“Elvhenan,” he said, unable to meet Solas’ eyes. “Talked about empires. Slaves in empires. Then Dorian said slaves then were probably treated a whole lot better than the alienage elves now and I― I lost it, I guess.”

He said nothing. Lavellan shivered from the wet.

“Hold still,” said Solas and he placed his hands on Lavellan’s arms. They glowed a soft green and the water soaking him lifted in droplets, suspended in the air and coalesced, before Solas waved his hand and the water fell back in the stream. Lavellan was completely dry. And warm. “There,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, missed Solas’ heat once he retracted his hands. “How’s Dorian?”

“He has been quiet, sombre,” said Solas. “I believe you have given him something to think about. It… is not easy. Standing your ground against a friend.”

“Do we have to go back now?” Lavellan asked, a little petulantly if he was being honest. “I don’t think I’m up to facing anyone.” He rubbed his eyes. “I yelled in front of everyone. Gods, they were all staring.”

“It is difficult to tear one’s gaze away when you are swept up in the passion of your ideals.”

“I’d call it more choked up than swept up,” he muttered.

“Because you care. That is not a fault, lethallin.”

“I just…” He pressed his lips. “I couldn’t let one of my friends think slavery was alright. I can’t. I can’t stand by it.” And yet, he had.

 _No, stop it_ , he admonished himself. That was the past. Something he could scarce even remember. Whatever happened then wasn’t something he could control now, and the best he could do was learn from it. So? Never be complicit ever again.

Never walk into fetters ever again.

“Never again,” he muttered to himself but Solas heard. His stare wandered over Lavellan’s face, heavy. “You’re looking at my vallaslin, aren’t you?”

Solas' gaze focused on Lavellan’s eyes instead of roaming and tracing the curves of the stylised raven upon his face.

Lavellan gave him a sad smile. “I know what they truly mean. Slave markings.”

The silence stretched between them as if it were hide pulled out to be tanned. Lavellan watched the play of light on the ground dancing with the shifting of the canopies, squinted away from a ray of light falling upon his eyes.

“How did you find out?” Solas asked.

“Memory,” Lavellan lied. Or… well, he supposed it wouldn’t be a lie if it were memory rather than Memory. Because he did remember knowing of it.

He truly was learning from Solas.

“It burns, sometimes,” Lavellan admitted. “As if I can feel it carving through my skin.”

“I have a spell,” said Solas and it almost made Lavellan smile. He looked at Solas who took a step closer to Lavellan, eyes shimmering with a flurry of emotions warring with one another, turned his eyes the colour of crystal grace petals when sunlight passed through it. “I can remove it. It will not burn. It cannot hurt you any longer.”

Lavellan stared at him. Already knew his answer would remain unchanged.

“No,” he said and offered Solas a grateful smile. 

“No?” Solas repeated incredulously. He reached for Lavellan’s face and cradled it, his frustration twisting his features into a broken snarl. “Why?” he all but hissed. “You deserve better than what these cruel marks represent. You―” He looked away as if it hurt, and it probably did. “Ma gonas revas. Lasa em[1].”

And Lavellan kept smiling though it turned sorrowful. 

“Solas,” he murmured, “they are a part of my culture. If you take them… If you take them, then I lose what marks me as Dalish.”

“You lose what marks you a slave,” he snapped.

“In Elvhenan it meant that,” he said. Lavellan gently turned Solas’ head by his chin so their gazes would meet. “Now it means another thing.”

“That you are all fools?” he muttered, expression pained.

“Rebellion,” Lavellan said.

Solas scowled. “Enlighten me.”

“Meanings can change over time. For the Dalish, they fought to preserve their culture. Tell me, you who has seen Elvhenan in memories, how accurate are the vallaslin?”

Solas kept frowning, but he considered it, at least.

“Almost perfect replicas,” he eventually said. Though spat seemed more apt.

“They survived. Through hundreds of years of persecution and erasure, they survived.”

“You will have to forgive me if I do not rejoice at the fact that slave markings are one of the few legacies of Elvhenan to survive over the years.”

“I don’t expect you to rejoice. You won’t understand.” Solas opened his mouth but Lavellan tapped his fingers against Solas’ lips and smiled at the resulting affronted look. “It’s alright that you don’t. It wasn’t meant to insult, lethallin. Simply, we fought to keep this. It’s ours now. Whatever cruelty they meant, we've given it a new meaning. Endurance, rebellion. We looked at time and said, ‘You will not erase us this day.’”

He held the hands cradling his face, gave Solas an intent look.

“Turn what hurts me into mine. I won’t erase it. I won’t run from it. I’m going to dismantle the very foundations it once stood on and I’m planting a new flag on the rubble and I’ll be wearing the vallaslin. The biggest fuck you in the history of fuck yous.”

“You wish to abolish slavery?” Solas asked, blinking in genuine bewilderment, before his expression softened. “Coming from anyone else, I would have scoffed. But you… You have already shaken the world. I do not doubt you can do it again.”

His throat dried. He had not expected that.

“Not just that,” murmured Lavellan. He looked back out into the Graves, burned the serenity of it into his mind. 

He was given this second life. Second chance. There was an idea he'd always considered, had turned it over in his head, but had never given it voice or thought and then he simply didn’t have time because of the threat Solas had posed. But perhaps if he gave it thought and voice… Something to strive for. A goal. If, somehow, all the world-ending stuff was taken care of. A dream for himself, for those who would come after him, and for those who had come before him.

“I want to give the Dales back to the elves,” he said, low and dark with promise, glanced at Solas. “I will give them back Arlathan Forest.”

He made a soft, unbelieving noise. “That is certainly a large promise. I believe Andraste and Shartan attempted that with the elves and the Dales. It all unfolded out poorly.”

“I know. Which is why Orlais has to change.” Lavellan let his hands fall off Solas’.

“And how would you go about doing that, exactly?”

“Briala,” he said. “I’m going to give her the throne.”

His declaration struck Solas speechless and he retracted his hands from Lavellan’s face.

“You would put such trust in her? No, I get ahead of myself. _How_ do you plan do that?”

“It’s one thing to rule an empire. But who truly rules it? The sovereign or the one who has their ear? Depending on how the night goes, I’ll make sure she either has Celene’s ear or the leash to Gaspard’s neck.” 

Lavellan geared more towards giving her Gaspard’s leash, essentially placing Briala on the throne, but there were some disadvantages with that path. First off, the leash must be strong. Gaspard despised the Game but he still grew up playing it, still knew how to navigate it, and while his usual move was to barrel through everything with a sword, he could be cunning when needed. Briala would be walking a knife’s edge the entire time.

With Celene… There was terrible history between them. Lavellan couldn’t, in good conscience, ask Briala to stay with the lover who'd murdered her parents and burned down the Halamshiral slums just to prove a point.

But he couldn’t ignore Celene’s contributions either. Minimal movements with making things better for the elves was better than the negative movements Gaspard would have wrought.

Solas turned away with a soft scoff. “And Tevinter?”

“There’s a magister named Maevaris Tilani. She has the ear of the Magisterium, and the Inquisition has given her the resources she needs to stay on top of the backstabbers. Dorian too. If he truly comes around the whole ‘slavery is actually pretty terrible’ idea, which I think he will, we can help him change Tevinter.”

He gave Lavellan a peculiar look. “We?”

Lavellan froze. Oh. 

“My apologies, I— I just—” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I presumed. You…” He turned away from Solas so he wouldn’t see his expression twist. “You probably have plans to leave. Once this is all over.”

What was he saying? _We_? As if it was guaranteed that Solas would stay? As if Solas would stand down? Why would he? To him, he had a duty, an obligation to help the elves the only way he knew how and Lavellan understood that. Hated that he did. But he did regardless. The same desire to help was driving them, and yet…

Could Lavellan be blamed for still foolishly, unlearningly, holding on to that sliver of a chance in the horizon? That one day, perhaps he and Solas could walk the same path without sacrifice?

But everything had a sacrifice.

“I did have plans to leave once Corypheus has been taken care off,” he said slowly. “But perhaps… Perhaps I could be convinced. To stay.”

Lavellan’s heart and breath stuttered, eyes widening, the swell of hope tentative upon the shores. He turned to Solas, jaw slightly slack. Solas couldn’t look at him, staring at the wolf statue with a troubled expression. 

“But what you plan will not be easy,” murmured Solas. “It is a tall order, and it would require precise manoeuvring. How would you go about it? How would you ensure that the elves will not lose Arlathan as they've lost the Dales? How would you ensure that your attempts to help will not decay once you are gone?”

He wrung his fingers, heart hollow. _Don’t make me hope. I tire of it being crushed._ “I can’t claim that I think everything will go smoothly. That I have everything under control and everything thought of. I don’t. And I’m still mostly focused on stopping Corypheus, but if we’re successful… We can help them. I know we can help. We’ll take things one step at a time, as they are.” He gave Solas a hesitant look. “It would be easier if I had a certain elven mage with me, someone to help me hash the details out and argue with me which would help show the problems in the plans.”

“You would welcome my arguing?”

“Maybe,” he teased. “Yelling at you is very therapeutic.”

He smiled. “You are terrible, lethallin.” 

Lavellan snorted. “It’s a distant plan for now.” His expression hardened. “For now.”

The Emerald Graves stirred with the soft wind, as if the spirits of those who had their final stand here approved of his intentions. Or that could just be his imagination. Solas was still staring at him.

“It will not be easy,” said Solas.

“No. And neither is this whole ‘stop Corypheus from trampling all over the world just so he could rule over old Tevinter’ business. But we’re managing.” He placed his hand on Solas’ arm, offered a warm smile. “I know you don’t consider us as your people.” Solas pursed his lips. “And I know you don’t exactly hold us in high regard, but I hope you will consider it.”

“What of the city elves?” he asked.

“I did say ‘us’.”

Solas considered him. “You consider the city elves your people too?”

“I do. I don't hold the belief that they’ve turned their back on elven culture. They did what they had to so they could survive, and the Dalish are doing what they’re doing to survive too. But it’s time, I think, that we did more than just surviving day to day.”

“You wish to restore the elves?”

“Not restore. Fix the imbalance. Someone has to keep fighting for them. I want to give them a home where they’re not marginalised and afraid. I want to give them a safe and stable future. Where they can retrieve and learn from the past in safety so they can both guard it and rebuild themselves.”

“It could fall,” said Solas. “The home you build them. It could fall.”

“Inevitably. Nothing stays the same forever, but if I learned anything, it’s that someone will always rise to help. I’ll do my part. And one day, when I die, I’ll leave the future in somebody else’s hands.”

Frustration twisted his lips, try as Solas did to hide it, but Lavellan was acutely aware of every idiosyncrasy in his expressions. “How can you be certain that they will not twist your legacy? Your caring nature is an exception, not the rule. Not everybody has your selflessness, your agency, or your compassion!” His eyes glimmered with something broken. “I cannot watch you build a glorious future only to watch it fall because of uncaring hands. Will not.”

“Solas,” he murmured, slid his hand down Solas’ arm to capture his hands. Warm and calloused. He gripped it firm. “Things that are built always fall at some point. But someone like us will always come along. Someone who strives towards a better world. Change is possible.”

“You are too idealistic.”

“You are too fatalistic.”

Solas huffed out a scornful laugh. “Opposing ends of the spectrum.”

“No. Counterweights. Balance. Which is why I’d like you with me when I do this. You pull me back before I burn myself in my idiocy, I pull your head out of your brooding ass.” 

“I do not brood,” Solas muttered.

“You sulk.”

“No.”

“Mopey, droopy elf.”

“Please stop.”

“Overdramatic, broody, sulking, mopey, droopy elf.”

“Ass.”

Lavellan gasped, drew his hand back in mock offence. “Solas!”

“Reckless, obstinate, troublemaking, problematic, self-immolating _ass_.”

“Solas, you’ll make me swoon.”

They stared at one another before Lavellan burst into laughter and Solas allowed himself a few chuckles. The vallaslin no longer burned. Nothing but a ghost.

The whisper of a new promise. 

Here in the land of the Dirthavaren, he made a new promise. He would give the elves a place to call theirs, truly, if they wished to settle, so that if some Dalish chose to remain nomadic, at least the choice was theirs instead of it being a necessity for survival.

Hope was such a rare thing to feel.

Lavellan cherished it. 

“Please consider my offer,” said Lavellan. “Please. I know it’s too much to pin your hopes on but… Let me try.”

And Solas — weary, proud, sorrowful Solas — said, “I will think on it.”

Lavellan knew that was the best he would get for now and resolved to keep trying.

Never again would they submit.

* * *

Dorian and Lavellan hadn’t spoken to each other since the argument yesterday. That was fine. They both needed time.

The Dalish said their goodbyes with the promise to meet again when they return to the Graves. Cole waved goodbye to Anaria’s swollen belly and the children wailed over Iron Bull leaving while he desperately placated them. Attempted. He wasn’t succeeding. It was… quite a sight. 

Revasha approached him, grumpy as always, but she seemed softer today.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he joked.

“As if,” she scoffed, scuffed her shoe on the soil. “Dareth shiral, hahren,” she mumbled. The hahren sounded genuinely respectful, this time. And worried.

Lavellan paused strapping the saddle on, just for a breath, before he turned and smiled reassuringly at Revasha.

“Be safe,” he said. “I’ll return in two months.”

“I’ll kick your ass when you come back.”

“We’ll see.”

They shared a long, hostile look, before she harrumphed and walked back to her clan but Lavellan didn’t miss the small smile on her lips. He smiled and resisted rolling his eyes.

“Where’s Solas?” Lavellan asked.

“Talking to the old people. Said he’d catch up,” said Bull and he chuckled. “Yeah, of course he’d hang with old people.”

“Solas is an old person at heart,” said Lavellan. 

“I detest that,” joined a new voice and they turned. Lavellan grinned at Solas.

“You’re just an old person then?” His eyes fell on the small, somewhat crooked stick in Solas’ hand. About the length of his forearm, almost the width of his wrist. Solas had tied the wolves around it. “What’ve you got there?”

Solas held the stick out and channelled his magic into it. The green flooded into the spaces and the stick elongated, the tip of it splitting into three strands which loosely coiled around one another. The green light flooded into that space between the coils. Solas let it rest on the ground and leaned against it, smiling smugly.

It was a staff.

“What the hell, it grows?” asked Bull. “Where’d you get that?”

“Some of these trees here are ancient, perhaps standing since millenias past when magic was rife and bountiful. I happened upon the branch of one such tree. It remains responsive to magic and conducts it well. The malleability of it enables me to change its length as I desire.”

“Any other sticks you can change the length of?” Bull asked, waggled his brows. “If you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” said Solas. “Though there is nothing we can do about your unfortunate circumstance.”

Bull guffawed. A few birds flew from the sudden noise. “Solas, was that a joke?”

“He jokes a lot,” said Lavellan. “Unfortunately, most of his humour is too high-brow for us so it flies over our sad, little heads.”

Solas shrunk the staff and fastened it to his belt, his lips pressed into an unamused line.

“Hey now,” said Bull. “My head’s not sad. Or little.”

“Which head are we talking about?”

“Wanna find out?” 

“I’m good,” said Lavellan. “I’d like to keep walking, if you don’t mind.”

“Not being able to walk the next day’s half the fun.”

“I think there’s a difference between walking funny and not being able to get up,” he said and Bull grinned.

“Don’t like it rough?”

“I like it rough just fine.” Lavellan waved him off and turned to his horse, pretended he didn’t notice Solas stumble behind him. He swung himself up into the saddle. “Don’t exactly want to break my spine riding Qunari cock though.”

“Inquisitor!” Solas admonished.

“What? I don’t.”

“There are children,” he hissed.

“Think of the children!” cried Bull but his laugh ruined any sincere sentiment.

Lavellan did scan for any Dalish children still lingering but there were no children. At all.

“No children around, lethallin,” he said and grinned. “Or are you the child?”

Solas slapped the flank of Lavellan’s horse and he yelped when the horse dashed forward. Bull’s laughter echoed in the forest.

* * *

“You’re late!” Josephine scolded the moment he alighted at Skyhold.

“Wha― First Day isn’t until tomorrow,” he protested. Couldn’t even get off his horse fully before she was dragging him by the back of his coat.

“ _Tomorrow_?” she asked, almost shrieking. “Inquisitor, do you even have your commemoration speech prepared?”

“Um―” He sent his friends a pleading look but Bull just cheerfully waved at him and Solas seemed suddenly riveted by the colour of the sky which had been the same fucking colour for weeks because they were in the middle of the Maker-damned winter. 

“You are absolutely filthy! Go get washed, quickly. I cannot _believe_ ―” 

* * *

Anyway, Josephine had nothing to worry about. Lavellan nailed his commemoration speech.

Now here he was being drank under the table by Bull and Blackwall.

That was unimportant.

He woke up the next morning with a pounding headache on the rafters of the Great Hall in nothing but his trousers. Someone had drawn all over his chest and arms. 

Sera.

Lavellan groaned. 

That was also unimportant.

* * *

His clan was safe, thank whatever deity was out there. For now.

“So Duke Antoine ended up dying trying to defend the Keeper from his own nobles,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, that’s a little hard to believe?”

“It could have been accidental, taken to look as if he died in defence of her,” said Josephine. “Whatever the cause, he can no longer pose a problem.”

“He had Venatori agents so we need to keep an eye on them,” said Lavellan. “The nobles fled for now, but they’re still mad and spreading lies and rumours. How typical.”

“The elves are safe, momentarily,” said Josephine with a soft sigh. “That is the best we can hope for.”

“For now,” agreed Cullen. “We’re lying in wait. Those nobles are bound to return.”

Still, Lavellan allowed himself a relieved breath, grateful that he'd listened to Solas. Sometimes, when he wasn’t trying to end the world, he had good ideas. Sometimes.

After discussing the events at the Exalted Plains and the Freemen problem as well as the numerous operations demanding their attention on the map, they finally got around to the preparations for Halamshiral. 

“Grand Duke Gaspard wants us to appear united, as a proper organisation,” said Josephine. “As you know, Inquisitor, militaristic forces cannot wear masks for such events. He has also sent us the designs for the military uniforms that we are to wear.”

His mood soured. Oh, _those_ ugly things.

Josephine took out the large scrolls and unrolled them, revealing the designs for the military uniforms which looked sharp and formal but All-Mother's mercy, the colours were _hideous_.

He made a face. As did Leliana. Josephine did her best to be polite.

“What,” he said, “the fuck is that?”

“It’s… very red,” agreed Cullen. “And blue.”

“I believe he is trying to combine Fereldan and Orlesian colours as we belong to neither. We are, literally speaking, situated in the middle. The divide between the two kingdoms.” Josephine pursed her lips. “It’s… charming.”

“It’s fucking ugly,” said Lavellan.

“Inquisitor, we must wear this. It would be an insult to the Grand Duke otherwise.”

“You mistake me for someone who cares about his feelings,” he said and rerolled the scrolls. “Fine, we'll wear the uniform, but he doesn’t get to decide our colours. Tell me, what colour is our banner?”

The three advisors looked at each other, then the Inquisition banner on the wall.

“Black,” he said. “We’ll figure out accent colours later.” He took the scrolls with him.

“Where are you taking those?” Cullen asked.

Lavellan’s eyes glinted. “Madame Vivienne.”

* * *

“Absolutely not,” she said, lips curling in affront.

“Thank you!” he sighed.

“This will not do,” she said snappily. “Come.” She took the designs and swept into the atrium where Solas looked up from his couch, reading another book, expression pulling tight at Vivienne’s appearance. She unrolled the scrolls on the table. “Dorian, darling!” she called out. Lavellan tensed.

Dorian peered over the library’s railings, made brief eye contact with Lavellan, before the two looked away just as quick.

“Come down,” she ordered.

Well, there was no denying her when she was using that tone. Unless you were Sera or Solas. Unstoppable force met immovable object. He wasn’t sure who was which.

Dorian shuffled into the rotunda with false cheer. “You require my dashing presence?”

“I require one with his sanity and wits about him.” She tapped a manicured finger on the displayed plans. “They wish for us to wear these uniforms to the ball.”

Dorian took one look at it before he grimaced as if he'd stumbled into a blood magic ritual which required an orgy of no less than sixty people.

Yeah, Lavellan still wasn’t over that.

“What is _that_?” Dorian asked. 

“Grand Duke Gaspard trying to control the Inquisition,” said Lavellan. “In his own way. He’s telling us how to present ourselves, purposefully choosing those colours to alienate us because we belong to neither Ferelden nor Orlais, and because it is just. So. Ugly.”

“I had not taken you for an arbiter of fashion,” said Solas behind him. 

Lavellan scowled. “I’m not usually, but I know when I’m being played.”

“If you throw the dress code away, he might take it as an insult,” said Dorian, still not quite meeting Lavellan’s eyes. 

“Which is why we won’t. The military uniform itself is a good idea. We are the Inquisition; we must appear as a unified organisation. Those colours can go rot in the Void for all I care though. We’ll appear in his uniform, but we’ll appear in our own colours. He can’t control us as he expects to.”

Gaspard’s little manoeuvre had been lost on Lavellan the first time since he was just relieved to receive an invitation. Now? No. Gaspard would bend to _them_ , not the other way around. 

“I believe we can also add a few embellishments, little modifications,” agreed Vivienne, an approving spark in her eyes at his statement. “Nothing drastic. We can hardly show up underdressed.”

“So what colours?” asked Dorian.

“Black, of course,” said Lavellan. “That’s the colour of our banner and no country has it as its dominant colour. Besides, Orlais loves colour. We would ultimately look more formidable in black.”

“I suspect we’d look quite dreary if show up in pure black,” said Dorian. 

“Not sure which accent colours to use. Keep it simple. Green…?”

Vivienne made a face. No, perhaps not. Green and black was Tevinter.

“White? Classic?” suggested Dorian.

“This is a royal masquerade, not a geriatric assembly,” said Vivienne. “Perhaps red.”

Lavellan felt a presence behind him. He turned and Solas was there, peering at the designs.

“Gold,” Solas said.

Dorian and Vivienne looked at him.

“Gold?” asked Dorian, then paused, considering it. “Actually, that’s not such a terrible idea. Black and gold. Elegant.”

Vivienne peered at Solas. “Darling, far be it for me to comment on your… _rustic_ ensemble, but are you certain this is a conversation you can contribute to?”

Solas huffed in slight scorn. “Enchanter, my _rustic ensemble_ does not detract from my objective ability to determine complementary colours.” And his frescoes surrounded them as a testament to that, its masterful execution unable to be denied, and everybody in this room knew it. “The Inquisitor wishes to appear as a formidable yet unified force? Black is perfect. He wishes to insert his small rebellion?” He glanced at Lavellan, eyes glinting. “Gold will suffice.”

“Do illuminate us on this decision,” Vivienne said. 

He merely tilted his head as if he couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t gotten it yet and it didn’t escape her notice.

“Gold is the colour of kings, wealth, prestige. Gold demands attention. It is why you've garbed him in it, Enchanter.”

Vivienne stayed quiet, narrowed her eyes. Lavellan looked down at his golden uniform.

“But often, you appreciate the brightest objects in the dark,” said Solas. “They are most luminous in it.”

Lavellan blinked at him. Solas kept his gaze on the designs.

“I see,” said Vivienne and it was heavy with meaning. Lavellan couldn’t be sure what. She and Solas seemed to be having their own separate conversation. “Loathe as I am to admit it, black and gold number among the few sound suggestions he has had.”

“Such high praises, Enchanter,” said Solas dryly.

“I have a seamstress in Val Royeaux. She is the best in her field. Allow me to discuss with her the arrangements for the uniforms. I believe we can come up with something befitting of the Inquisition and of the Inquisitor.”

“Nothing too ornate,” Lavellan said. “We’re still a political and military group.”

“Although you have been dipping your hand heavily into espionage as of late,” remarked Dorian. “The rookery always teems with life.”

“Some children need nudges,” he muttered. “Hidden nudges.”

Vivienne rerolled the scrolls and tucked them under her arm.

“Thank you, Vivienne,” he said. “If you could also discuss with the seamstress if it’s possible to ensure the uniforms can be used practically? I suspect there’ll be fighting if we’re facing assassins.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, gaze flicking once more towards Solas, before she walked out of the rotunda, her heels clicking on the stone. 

“Well,” said Dorian, gesturing behind him awkwardly, “I must be getting back to my book. Riveting read.” He turned, again not meeting Lavellan’s eyes, and shuffled up the stairs to the library as if was heading for the stocks. Lavellan frowned.

Solas returned to his book.

Lavellan propped himself up on the table and squinted at Solas.

Eventually, Solas sighed and looked up at him. “Is there anything else you require of me, Inquisitor?”

“Why gold?” he asked.

“I believe I already gave my reasons.”

“I think you just implied I’m obnoxiously bright in this uniform.”

Solas smiled. “Occasionally. Although, I retained low expectations seeing as it was Vivienne who'd suggested it. It does cut for a nice figure, I suppose. That, I would give her.”

Lavellan’s lips twitched. “A nice figure, huh?” he teased. 

“An objective truth,” said Solas.

“Uh huh,” he said, smiling. “Of course. And if this colour so hurt your eyes, why suggest it for black?”

“As I said. Too much is an indulgence. A tasteful amount is elegant. Your garb should befit and declare the grace with which you move and fight.”

“Ah, and now you suggest I’m graceful?”

“It was no suggestion,” said Solas, gaze sharp yet ghostly on Lavellan’s skin, lingering and yet flitting. Lavellan gripped the table edge. “It was a _declaration_. It was never up for debate.”

Lavellan’s breath caught, the tip of his ears flushing.

A slow smile pulled at Solas’ lips, playful yet serious, incongruous with the humble apostate image he'd cultivated.

“It would also match the colour of your eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally Dorian could not have picked a better time to bring up slavery. Bit of an emotional roller coaster, this chapter. I've seen both arguments on whether to remove the vallaslin or not, and honestly, they're both valid. Really depends on the Inquisitor's personality/priorities.
> 
> (I don’t actually dislike the Winter Palace uniforms as much as Lavellan does bahaha. I actually really dig the red.)
> 
> Anyway, that wraps things up in the Dales (for now; they'll be back). Halamshiral looms ever closer. Oh man, oh man. I'm excited. Wicked Eyes was one of my favourite quests! Although a lot of people also hated it for the same reasons I loved it pfhaha.
> 
> Bonus:  
> [POV: You’re Solas and the love of your life just declared he’s going to give the elves a home and all you taste are ashes on your tongue and your heart in your throat because this is all. Your. Fault. And you want to let him try, gods you want to let him try, you want to hope, you want him to succeed, but in the end what will it amount to when he’s dead and gone? How does it feel knowing you’re cradling something bright and warm in your hands but it isn’t eternal and that is because of YOU. Someone this brilliant can never shine as bright as he could, as he should, because of YOU. YOU will kill him. YOU are already killing him. 
> 
> (You have already killed him)]
> 
> \---  
> 
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Ma gonas revas. Lasa em:** You deserve freedom. Allow me.[⇧]


	38. Lips shape forgotten prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental health and anxiety went brrrr this week, wahahaha! Hopefully the editing for this chapter wasn't too sloppy.
> 
> In any case, enjoy. 
> 
> Alternative chapter title: "Just bros being bros"

_vespers on your tongue—_

* * *

“Thank you for your time, Comte Dumaine,” said Lavellan and offered his hand, hoped that they wouldn’t notice the crescents his nails had dug into his palms during the excruciating meeting. They shook hands.

“House Dumaine stands with you, Inquisition,” said Comte Dumaine before they left.

Once the door to Josephine’s office closed, he massaged his sore neck.

“You know, at some point during that meeting, I wished Corypheus would come and end my pain,” he said.

Josephine grimaced into her board. “As painful as it was, it has ensured the last of the alliances we require for Halamshiral. They should prove most helpful in ensuring the damaging gossip and false rumours do not destroy your standing before the ball starts.”

“Sublime,” he said flatly.

Leliana smiled. “Cheer up, Inquisitor. That was our last meeting. No more Orlesian dignitaries to tolerate, for the time being.”

“My neck is stiff,” he grumbled.

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Leliana and reached into her pockets, gave him a key. He took and frowned at it. “A key to the private bath in the bathhouse, accessible only via the Keep,” she explained. “For the lord of the castle. You are the closest to a lord, I suppose. Ever since the baths opened, everyone has gone to indulge. You should try it.”

“You can have it. I doubt I’d go,” he said.

She stared back at him, made no move to take it.

“Ah,” he said. “That was a command.”

Leliana’s smile widened. “I wouldn’t presume to give the Inquisitor orders.”

“But Leliana would presume to give Mahanon orders?”

Her already wide smile brightened. “Orders? My, such a strong word. I am merely _advising_ you. After all, I am an advisor, and what a terrible advisor I would be if I do not ensure our Inquisitor is receiving the care he requires.”

He glanced at the door. “It’s locked, isn’t it?”

“That would imply I am holding you hostage.”

Josephine sighed. “The door is not locked.”

A click.

“Now it’s not,” he said.

“Leliana!” Josephine admonished.

“Who even locked it?” Lavellan asked, laughing.

“It must have been the wind,” said Leliana. “We must be careful. The winds are so powerful they can turn locks. The winds also wish for the Inquisitor to try the baths.”

Josephine shot Leliana an exasperated look, but it morphed into a gentle smile once she turned to him. “I share Leliana’s sentiments. Please try to relax. I know the preparations haven’t given you much time to rest.

No kidding. Halamshiral preparations had been a flurry of activity and everybody was moving and working, never at rest, and Lavellan was no better. Everything in him was exhausted, down to his marrows, but his stress had left him unable to succumb to exhaustion, his thoughts always screaming in the night as he glared up at his ceiling. The Well would agitate and tell _him_ to be quiet for a change.

“Alright,” he said. “Fine. Maybe I’ll try it.” He doubted he would but if it meant Josephine and Leliana would release him, what was a little white lie?

The door remained untouched by the _wind_ as Lavellan returned to his quarters.

He sighed as he closed the door and ascended the stairs, grimaced as he massaged the stiff muscles of his shoulders. Creators, everything in him was tense. Lavellan eyed the stack of paperwork waiting for him on his desk and grumbled. No rest for the wicked.

“Maybe I don’t want to be wicked,” he muttered and sat.

His gaze fell on the wooden tiger beside the inkwell. A piece he had recently finished. Lavellan smiled and picked it up, turned it in his hands as he scrutinised the details. Would Revasha even like it? He wouldn’t be offended if she threw it away. Maybe he’d make a collection and scatter it around her aravel to annoy her.

He placed the tiger down and reached for the coffee he'd prepared earlier. Pathetically cold now, but Lavellan still held a moderate amount of self-hatred so he took a sip and hummed in unsurprised disgust.

He picked up the first paper on the pile and groaned at the block of writing staring him in the face.

A knock at the door. _Please don’t be more paperwork._

“Inquisitor? It’s Solas.”

Lavellan set the coffee down in defeat. Alas. “Come in.”

Soft footfalls ascended the short steps and Solas approached. Lavellan squinted at the letter he was reading and threw it down petulantly, rubbing his eyes.

“Not that I dislike you, Solas, but your presence this past week has always indicated more paperwork."

His lips twitched. “I apologise. I do not enjoy it any more than you do.” He appraised Lavellan. “You do not look well.”

“That obvious?” he asked. “I just came back from a meeting with House Dumaine. Do you know how long I sat smiling and being polite, waiting for the part where I gave _at least_ a quarter of a shit?” He stood and paced, arms gesticulating. “It. Never. Came. A ninety-year-old impotent man would have better luck coming than the moment where I would _give a shit_.”

Lavellan collapsed back into his seat and shook the letter he had been reading at Solas.

“And I’m convinced it would kill Lord Iguierro to say what he means without extending it to three paragraphs! A darkspawn would rail him in the chest with a sword and instead of saying ‘ouch’ he’d go into a monologue!”

“Ah,” said Solas, smiling. “Death to pontificators.”

A helpless laugh bubbled out of him. “You know what they don’t tell you about being Inquisitor? When they hand you the job listing, you go, ‘Oh, yeah, walk out of the Fade? Peanuts. Kill demons and stop a mad fossil from ending the world? Sign me the _fuck_ up. Walk around being praised as the prophet of a god you don’t even believe in? Shit’s already weird enough so this may as well happen.’ But you don’t see the fine print at the bottom!” He slammed his hand on the stack of paperwork and bared his teeth, feeling a little unhinged. “It’s the administrative part of the job that’ll kill you! Demons? Ancient darkspawn magister? Fuck that, they can be killed. But this?” He gestured helplessly at the paper. “Good luck!”

“You can always burn it,” suggested Solas. “You have a suitable fireplace.”

Lavellan rubbed a hand down his face. “Believe me, I almost did,” he muttered into his palm.

“Shall I return another time?” He motioned at the papers he was carrying. Lavellan slumped in his seat. “Before you decide to throw me over the balcony.”

“Why bother when I can just push you down the stairs?” 

“Murder is on the agenda now?”

“It wouldn’t be murder. It’d be an accident.”

Solas laughed and handed him the paper. “These are Alexius’ reports.”

“Put them in this pile,” he said and gestured at the sad pile with about five pages on it.

“What is it?”

“Ones I actually enjoyed reading. You won’t get accidentally pushed down the stairs any time soon.”

Solas was still smiling as he placed the reports down. “How relieving. I have also passed on the glyphs to Cillian to be investigated.”

Lavellan murmured his gratitude and reached for the pathetically cold cup of coffee. Before he could take a sip, Solas smoothly took it from him and left Lavellan staring at his now empty hands.

Solas examined the drink. “This is already cold.”

“It matches my wretched mood. Can I please have it back?"

He stared at Lavellan. “How much sleep have you gotten the past week?”

“Take a guess.” Lavellan waved at his face. “Look at this very handsome face and take a wild guess.”

Solas set the cup down. “Have you tried the baths?”

“Not you too,” he sighed, massaged his shoulders. “Leliana gave me the key so I can access the private bath but I haven’t had the time.” The baths had opened in his past life too, but he never used them. No sleeping issues then, either.

Being well-rested must have been so nice. However that had felt.

“As you are fond of saying, it is not a matter of getting time, rather, a matter of making time,” he said.

“Are you seriously using my own words against me?”

“I am reminding you since you never listen to your own sound advice." Hed held out an inviting hand. “Come, I can show you how to operate them. The paper will not go anywhere.”

“Unfortunately.” His pulse spiked for a splinter of a second but he brought it to heel. Solas. Baths.

Nevertheless, his desperation for rest had deprived him of his rational thinking so he let Solas lead him out of the room and through the Keep to the private bath. A few servants acknowledged them as they passed.

They stopped at and opened a door carved with ornate patterns of hanging leaves, and entered the narrow corridor beyond. Solas lit the torches as they passed, and upon reaching the room, he waved his hand and the braziers and candles flared.

Lavellan whistled. A circular pool with steps easing into it greeted them, though it was devoid of water for the moment. The stretch of wall beside it boasted a mural of craggy mountains and the night sky while a section of the room was reserved for seating arrangements. Cabinets lined the wall opposite the mural.

He considered the small pedestal by the edge of the bath, a wolf statue atop it. A spout protruded from the pedestal over the pool. For the water, maybe?

Solas followed his gaze. “Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No,” he answered and wandered into the room. He marvelled at the mural, brushing tentative fingers over it as he passed, before peering into the small archway at the back of the room. It led into a showering space. He looked back at Solas fiddling with something at the base of the wolf pedestal.

“Go wash yourself,” he said to Lavellan. “I will prepare the bath.”

Lavellan frowned. “I’ll help you.”

“No, I brought you here to take some time off for tonight. Allow me to handle things. There should be robes and soap in the washroom.”

Lavellan hesitated but acceded and entered, acutely aware of the one-wall barrier between him and Solas as he undressed.

He yanked on the chain by the wall and let the water rushing from the overhead spout hit his face.

Lavellan walked out wearing the bathrobe afterwards, the fabric itself already thin, sheer from the waist-up. There was no reason for self-consciousness. It was just Solas. It was fine. This was fine.

Steaming water poured from the pedestal spout into the pool.

“The water is drawn from a natural underground source,” Solas explained over the gushing water, “and cycled back through a system of filters. It should be familiar to those who have experience with Tevinter plumbing."

Lavellan sat at the edge of the bath and admired the tiled mosaic. “Is this another case of Tevinter copying elven constructs?”

“Imperfectly,” said Solas with a small, smug smile. “They could not accomplish self-heating water.”

Once filled, Solas stopped the water and gestured for Lavellan to enter. He stepped in, the water reaching to his hips, before he sat on the small ledge by the side. The water climbed to his chest. Warmth seeped into exhausted muscles and he slumped against the wall with a sigh.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he said.

“Warm enough?”

He hummed, tipped his head back and smiled languidly at Solas through half-lidded eyes. “Thank you, lethallin.”

Solas smiled back though it seemed strained. “I will ask someone to check on you later. For now, relax. You have certainly earned it.”

Lavellan’s heart raced. _No, don’t leave me alone with myself—_

“You’re not staying?” he asked.

Solas hesitated.

“I do not wish to impose,” he said, slow, as if carefully selecting his words. Lavellan sat straighter and gestured at the waters with an inviting sweep of his hand, hoped the casual gesture masked his true unease.

“The bath is big enough for two. And you know I won’t do any relaxing in the quiet.”

“True enough,” he said with a short huff. He glanced at the door, the bath, then frowned. Lavellan pushed further.

“You need a break too,” he said. “Stay. Keep me company?” It was one thing to be left alone while preoccupied with tasks, another matter entirely to stay in the quiet where his own head would be his undoing.

Solas stared, assessing. “If you are sure.” Although he was the one who sounded uncertain.

“I am,” he affirmed.

“Very well.”

Lavellan almost slumped in relief. Solas walked into the shower and the sound of rushing water followed.

 _One-wall_ barrier.

Lavellan submerged himself up to his nose with a scowl.

In hindsight, maybe this was a terrible idea.

The warmth coaxed the tension out of his muscles at least, and his eyes slid shut.

 _Ras’virelan,_ the Well whispered _. Syn ma eolasem? Ar’an gelir ma. [1]_

His eyes snapped open just as the soft splash of water echoed in the room. Solas settled himself into the bath across him and released a small, contented sigh. Lavellan pushed himself up so the water wouldn’t cover his mouth.

“Nice, right?” he asked, banishing thoughts of the Well and Ras’virelan from his mind. Not now.

“I had forgotten the immediate relief such a comforting warmth gave,” Solas murmured, eyes closed.

“You’re welcome.”

He opened his eyes, unimpressed. “I am the one to suggest this.”

“I’m the one who suggested you stay.”

“Then let us both congratulate one another for the splendid contribution.”

“What’s this? Is the bath making your irritable ass amiable?”

“Relish it while it lasts.”

Lavellan chuckled, leaned his head back once more, tilted it so he could appreciate the mural on the wall. All the constellations were present, hidden amidst the deep and gorgeous gradient of navies and dark purples which comprised the sky. Faint sweeps of white hinted at clouds. The rich colours couldn’t have come from the ground pigments they had now. He almost expected the stars to wink and move.

“Did you paint this?” asked Lavellan.

“Yes,” said Solas though he never specified when he'd found the time to do so and Lavellan never asked.

“Beautiful as always.”

He looked down, fighting back a smile. “You flatter me.”

“It’s truth.”

The quiet drifted between them, comfortable.

“I can paint something else, if you’d like,” offered Solas.

Lavellan looked at him. “What, on this wall?”

“A scenery reminiscent of the Emerald Graves since you enjoyed the forest.” Solas’ gaze traced over the mural, methodically gleaming, as if he could see it in his mind’s eye already.

“No,” said Lavellan. “It’s got all the constellations. Also, the colours are so rich and― Well, it’s fine. Leave it.” He smiled softly at it. How long did Solas agonise over this? These were his baths first. Must have wanted something nice to look at. “I like it,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Solas returned, just as quiet.

Lavellan tipped his head forward and sank deeper once more, let his eyes fall shut. This was nice. He better not fall asleep though, lest he drown. Embarrassing way to go.

Maybe he could finally sleep tonight. They had an early War Council tomorrow and they were going to call on the remaining nine invites since Gaspard allowed, at most, twelve key Inquisition members for the invitation, discounting the Inquisitor. 

Of course, he would push it to the maximum amount.

They also needed to call the rest of the inner circle and examine the map of the Winter Palace that Sera had received from her Friends. There were also letters he still needed to finish quick. At least they'd already ensured the alliances they needed to boost their reputation and counter any damaging gossip. It would be hard enough navigating the ball as a Dalish. If he could control the field before the game and _the_ Game began―

“You are frowning.”

Lavellan opened his eyes, blinked at Solas with a small, “Huh?”

“This is not enough to calm you, is it?”

He chewed on his lip and sighed. “No. Mind’s still racing.”

“How can I help?” asked Solas.

Lavellan smiled wryly. “Do you have a spell that can turn my thoughts off? Just for a while so I can have pure, blissful, quiet.”

It was a jest but Solas appeared to be considering it. He hummed, before he rose and stepped out of the bath. Was he leaving?

No, he merely opened the cabinets against the wall and rummaged through them. Clink of bottles.

The fabric of the robes from the waist-up was all but transparent, clung to Solas’ skin with every movement like a jealous lover, hung off the hard line of his shoulders. Rivulets of water travelled down his calves.

“Ah,” said Solas and Lavellan averted his gaze. Solas procured three, small vials and approached, knelt and presented the colourful vials to Lavellan.

“What are they?” Lavellan asked.

“Fragrant oils. Choose which scent you’d prefer. We can also forego them if you wish.”

He uncapped one and waved it beneath Lavellan’s nose. Sweet, heady, too heavy. The second was mildly floral, too sharp. The third—

Comfort. Full, but not suffocating. Like a gentle and solid hand on his back. Rich and layered.

“That one,” he chose and Solas smiled. Lavellan peered up at him, kept his gaze on Solas’ face and stopped it from wandering. “Which would you have chosen?”

“The same,” he said.

Solas retrieved a strange lamp and placed it atop one of the small brazier brackets against the wall, poured the oil into it.

“What’s it for?” Lavellan asked.

“To diffuse the scent." He placed the vials back and closed the cabinet with an unreadable expression. “As for not thinking…” He turned to look at Lavellan with another considering expression.

Solas approached again and Lavellan stayed very, very still.

He entered the bath, right beside Lavellan who stared.

“Turn,” Solas ordered.

Lavellan blinked dumbly. “Why?”

“I am going to give you a massage.”

 _You’re going to_ what _—?_

His brain floated uselessly in his head and all Lavellan could utter was a confused sound.

Solas smiled. “When was the last time you had one?”

“Three years ago, maybe. I’m not sure. Maybe longer.” He looked at Solas again but now they were too close and he need only shift his right arm forward to touch him. “I, uh, are you sure? I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It is no trouble,” he assured.

Lavellan was an adult, he could do this.

He stood and shuffled to a part of the bath without the ledge for sitting and presented his back to Solas.

Five months ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead willingly turning his back to Solas.

The cool edge of the wall pressed just below his sternum, the water level receding to his waist once more. Solas’ gentle fingers peeled his robes down, touches ghosting over bare skin as the fabric fell. Lavellan pulled his arms from the sleeves and leaned his elbows on the bath edge. Solas rested his hands on Lavellan’s shoulders, water sliding from his fingertips down and over Lavellan’s collarbones. Lavellan shivered. From the cold. It was from the cold.

“Hm,” said Solas.

“What?”

“Lethallin… I believe I may be holding stone rather than muscle.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Hey! Drawing a bow is hard work and so are flailing daggers around.”

“There is a great difference between toned and knotted.” Solas rubbed circles into the muscle of his shoulders and Lavellan hissed at the dull roll of pain. Solas adjusted the pressure accordingly until the pain became bearable. Soon, the motions turned more soothing than hurting. His head slowly tipped forward.

The cold faded, chased away by the press of sure fingers.

Solas muttered.

“What?” asked Lavellan.

“You are strung tighter than a harp string stretched to its limits.” Which was Solas speak for, _Damn, you live like this?_

He laughed again. “Beg your pardon, Solas. Haven’t exactly had time to ask someone for a massage and it’s not as if it was at the forefront of my concerns either.”

“You shouldn’t have to ask. You should be lavished with offers to help you for all the help you have provided. Given luxuries.”

“Dorian said almost the same thing. Something along the lines of me being handfed grapes?” He chuckled, turned into a sigh when Solas worked at a knot beside his shoulder blades. “Besides,” he murmured, “you know that’s not the kind of person I am.”

“I know,” he murmured back. “I know.”

Solas swapped fingers for the heel of his palm and pressed into and up the muscle beside Lavellan's spine. He braced one hand against Lavellan’s shoulders so he could press deeper and Lavellan grinned at his grumbling.

“Having trouble?” he teased.

“Your back is as stubborn as its owner,” Solas muttered.

He laughed. Solas pressed too hard and sent Lavellan lurching, elbows slipping over the patch of water beneath his arms. He laughed harder.

“Stop laughing. Your shoulders are shaking— Stop _moving_.”

“Stop making me laugh then!”

Lavellan pushed himself back up, turned and met Solas’ unimpressed face. He poked the corner of Solas’ lips.

“You’re smiling,” said Lavellan.

The corners twitched but Solas grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him back around.

“I saw that smile,” Lavellan sang.

“Perhaps the exhaustion has addled your head.”

“You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if it has.”

Solas returned to his soothing ministrations, still fought with the muscle, but as time passed, the muscle yielded. Lavellan relaxed.

“Better,” said Solas.

The fragrant oil threaded with the steam, settled and softened the air into a hazy, aromatic screen.

“Are you still thinking?” asked Solas.

“I—” Solas worked at another knot of muscle and Lavellan’s thoughts winked out of existence. Well, there was the answer.

They stayed arrested in the quiet, masterful hands on his back coaxing him into surrender. He lost track of where Solas' hands were, focused only on its presence, trailing heat as they roamed and pressed and warmed the expanse of his back.

Lavellan closed his eyes, tipped his head further forward, hummed in approval as Solas finished unknotting the muscle. The fragrance turned heavy. Steam with his every breath.

Quiet.

Too thick, too much to fill, too many dangerous thoughts and yet none at all.

“Do you have memories of these baths?” he asked to distract himself, voice more dazed than he'd like.

“Yes,” Solas whispered. His voice was closer. If Lavellan leaned back, he was sure Solas would be there, chest pressed to back. Warm. Could turn his head and curl his fingers around Solas’ neck and pull him in and—

“Tell me?” Lavellan asked.

Solas was quiet again. Too many things to go wrong in the quiet.

Memories of heat and hands and breaths and teeth — usually swept aside and ignored by him — now lurked with the threat of descent upon his rattled defences. Unhappy about being disregarded for so long.

“Back in the time of Elvhenan,” Solas began, voice like falling silk, “there walked a proud, tempestuous man who thought he knew the world and all it offered.” Lavellan frowned but tilted his head to show his attentiveness. “He'd lost his faith for trust and love, knew that to love was to be betrayed, and so he kept this castle cold and vacant.”

Ah, gearing for self-deprecation tonight, was he?

“He sounds lonely,” Lavellan murmured.

“Do you think so?”

“Lost faith tells me that he first loved without reserve.”

Solas said nothing in response, instead splayed his fingers over Lavellan’s back. They trailed up, left a path of heat which lingered and seeped into soaked skin.

Fucking hell. This was a mistake. Lavellan wasn’t walking out of here alive.

“Who was this elf?” Lavellan asked, expected Solas to wave it all off as some knowledge lost to time and something, something, Fade and magical pony dreams.

“Fen’Harel.”

Lavellan’s head snapped up and he stared at Solas in bewilderment. Solas remained aloof. Although, something sharp lingered behind Solas’ eyes, steely in the dim of the room, flickering with something alive and waiting. All of that focused solely on Lavellan.

“You’re not joking,” Lavellan concluded, his pulse knocking against the thin barrier of skin.

Solas smiled. Too sharp.

“No.” He turned Lavellan by the shoulders again, clutching a little too tight.

“Why let us stay in his castle?” Lavellan asked.

“Who is to say?” he said and Lavellan refrained from huffing. Oh, so _now_ he was evading.

His irritation dissipated with another skilful press of Solas’ fingers. He cursed. Solas chuckled, the timbre full and deep and rumbling.

“I have another story,” said Solas.

Lavellan took a few seconds to reassemble his coherency.

“Truth or fiction?” he asked.

“Fiction.” Solas paused. “Although it could be construed as truth. All stories, even those made to entertain, are truthful once you see yourself within it.”

“Go ahead then,” Lavellan said, unable to mock the vague answer.

“Since we are on the subject of Fen’Harel…” He rubbed small circles into Lavellan’s back. “Have you heard of the tale of The Clever Star?”

He perused through the catalogue of his memories and frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“There once was a hunter,” Solas said, “who wielded a bow of glinting sunlight, and a sword of silver starlight.” His voice adopted its lyrical quality, enrapturing, gripping Lavellan’s attention as if it were the wolf’s teeth resting on the skin of his neck. “A hunter of great renown who had befriended the denizens of the forest, had fostered peace between the hawk and hare, had charmed the snakes so they would never bite him, had danced with the halla, had walked with the bears. He beloved the forest as it beloved him. They called him the Star for he was bright as he walked among them.”

Solas’ hands lowered, kneaded the muscles of Lavellan’s lower back. Lavellan was certain he had no knotted muscles left. Not after being subjected to such thorough attentions.

“He was most renowned, however, for his cunning mind.” Hence the title. “He would lay such beautiful traps in the forest, tempting those who would seek to do it harm. His traps would close upon intruders and they would welcome it. Legends of this beautiful trap spread. What manner of trap would be so welcomed, so enjoyed, even at the price of death?”

Solas rested his hands on Lavellan’s hips, pressing and rubbing calming circles with his thumb, teasing at the boundary where Lavellan’s robes were hugging his waist. Lavellan breathed in steam and fragrance.

“This legend reached the ears of the Dread Wolf. Against his better judgement, the legend of these beautiful traps and the cunning hunter had intrigued him into seeking them. But the forest dissuaded him. The bears chased him, the hawk and hare misled him, the snakes struck from the undergrowth, the halla blocked the path.” With each deterrence, Solas dug his fingers into Lavellan’s skin as if imparting Fen’Harel’s frustration, writing it upon his back in strokes of fire.

Lavellan could lean against him. The temptation was there. If he succumbed, he knew Solas would follow, could tell his story in sweeping whispers across Lavellan’s lips, murmur his tales against Lavellan’s heated skin.

He minded his shallowing breaths, deepened them. Leashed his heart and fastened it to his ribs.

“The hunter received word of Fen’Harel’s arrival, already knew what it was he came for.”

The water shifted. The heat and voice behind him seemed closer.

“However, he was just as proud as the Wolf, had tasted victories innumerable times and bored as a result. Fen’Harel would be a challenge to overcome, he was sure.” He dug the heel of his palms into Lavellan’s already pliant back and pushed up, slow. Lavellan either cursed or sighed or said nothing at all. 

“Challenging the Dread Wolf?” Lavellan asked, voice as scattered as the drift of steam around them. “Brave or foolish?”

“The two often overlap,” said Solas with a soft chuckle and Lavellan snorted. Wasn’t that the truth? “That night, the hunter laid his traps, the simple and the beautiful alike, before he journeyed to the edge of the forest where the Wolf lurked and skulked, searching for ways inside.” Another pause. His hands were back on Lavellan’s shoulders, following the slope of them.

Lavellan frowned. Solas had been pausing after every segment.

The realisation kicked him in the teeth. Solas was making it up as he went along.

_The Dread Wolf is spinning you a story._

“‘I have lain my traps, simple and beautiful alike,’ said the hunter. ‘I challenge you to a hunt of wiles. When you catch me, you will know the answer to your question.’ And Fen’Harel, never one to decline challenges of such a nature, accepted. On the condition that the forest will help neither.”

Faint laughter drifted into the room from those in the communal baths the next few walls over.

“Thus, it began. The forest was the hunter’s domain. Even if the forest were to remain neutral, he knew it so intimately as if it were a part of himself. He misled the Dread Wolf, taunted him by coming close and darting past before the Wolf’s teeth could close around his throat. The hunter laughed, mad and drunk from the moonlight and the chase.” His hands rested on the curve where shoulders met neck and gently worked on the muscles there. Lavellan bunched his shoulders and yelped at the crawling sensation.

Solas laughed. “Ticklish?”

Lavellan grumbled and rubbed his nape. “No,” he lied. “Just… sensitive.”

“Ah, of course. Such a difference that makes, truly.”

“Ass.” It wasn't as venomous as it could have been and they both knew it. Solas turned him around again, hand firm on his nape. 

“Do you wish to hear the rest of the story or not?” asked Solas.

Lavellan's face warmed, breath stuck in his chest, too aware of the weight and grip of Solas' hand. “Fine.”

Though Solas had teased earlier, he let go and steered clear of Lavellan's neck.

“Where was I? Ah, yes. The hunter’s tactics irritated Fen’Harel, and yet he has not had such _fun_ —” he dug the heel of his palm into a sensitive part of Lavellan’s back and Lavellan silently choked on a breath, mouth falling open from his silent noise of surprise— “in centuries. Fen’Harel avoided the traps, learned the hunter’s misdirection, and laid traps of his own by mimicking the sounds of animals in need for he knew the hunter’s kind heart would compel him to investigate. The hunter caught on and retaliated by leaving his golden arrows in hidden spaces as false trails. Their chase and game of deceit and guile continued well into the night.”

Lavellan’s mind spun, both enraptured and yet unable to concentrate on the story, too focused on Solas’ touches, the pull of skin on skin, the slow track of droplets over his back.

“Fen’Harel knew it would not be enough to mimic the calls of the injured animals, and so he shifted into the injured animals himself and approached the hunter. The hunter would help, cautious at first, and Fen’Harel would later return as another injured animal. Eventually, the hunter mistakenly believed Fen’Harel was hurting the creatures of the forest. One final time, Fen’Harel shifted into an injured halla; the hunter’s most beloved animal. By now, the hunter approached without hesitation, cursing Fen’Harel with every furious step.”

He heard the smile in Solas’ voice, the delight of one close to its prey.

“And Fen’Harel returned to his true and terrible form, answered his curses with a too-wide smile.” Solas once again pressed a large, broad stroke down and up the muscles beside Lavellan's spine, struck so deep with a pleasant ache that Lavellan’s back arched, stomach pressing against the smooth wall of the bath. He was left boneless and strung all at once.

He was going to die. Solas was going to fucking kill him twice.

“Fen’Harel leapt,” murmured Solas, “and fell upon the hunter.”

Lavellan’s throat and mouth stayed dry no matter how many times he swallowed. He asked, breaths shaky, “How does it end?”

“Some say the hunter escaped,” he said and Lavellan hung onto every word, welcomed the slow slide of it like honey down his throat. Solas’ hands rested and seared on his hips. “Others say…”

His warm breaths fanned over the side of Lavellan’s neck as the hint of moving lips traced over the shell of his ear, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Others say: that night, the Dread Wolf feasted on a star.”

His heart broke free from its leash and drum, drum, drummed. Reverberated in the chamber of his chest.

“Are you sure that’s how it ends?” challenged Lavellan, almost a whisper, aware of every centimetre of space remaining between them.

“Is it not?”

“The hunter claimed that Fen’Harel would have his answer _when_ , not _if_ , he found a way to snare and catch the hunter,” he said. “This means it was deliberate so that the trick the Dread Wolf sought would end up being his hidden yet sure downfall. I know what makes the traps compelling.”

“Oh?” His breaths ghosted over Lavellan’s ear. “What felled him?”

Lavellan turned his head, locked gazes with Solas who was much, _much_ closer than he'd anticipated. Lavellan’s gaze lowered, unable to hold the eye contact.

“The illusion of victory,” he whispered in the scant space.

Something tense stretched between them, a rope pulled taut, close to snapping. Lavellan could snap it. Cut it. Surge forward and pull Solas close, pull towards an impending fall. It wouldn’t take much.

Not much at all.

“So who truly won?” Solas asked. Made no move forward or back.

“Neither, both,” he meant to reply but a yawn interrupted him and Lavellan shocked himself with it. He blinked once it passed.

And just like that, the tense atmosphere between them dissipated like fine mist beneath the scorch of a summer sun. Lavellan almost punched the wall. Why did it take so much to build and so little to crumble?

…Did he even want it built?

_Don’t fool yourself. You know the answer._

Solas laughed softly though it trembled at the edges as he stepped back.

“Ah, splendid. It worked,” he said.

“Beg pardon?” Lavellan grumbled, irritated.

“You fall asleep easier when told a story,” said Solas. The distance between them grew, and try as Solas might to hide it, the desire and regret flickered in his eyes in equal measure. “Let us get you back to your quarters. Before the water turns cold.”

Lavellan pulled his robes back over his shoulders and slipped his arms through, felt wrung and loose. Still, despite his disappointment, he couldn’t deny the exhaustion turning his lids and movements heavy.

The two of them dressed and dried in utter silence. The silence continued all the way back to his quarters.

Once Lavellan stepped foot inside, he turned to Solas who stood before the door, refusing to cross the threshold.

Another uncertain quiet lingered between them.

If Lavellan invited Solas in, he would enter. One word from him and Solas would follow and kiss him until the world disappeared. One word. Not even. A tip of his head, one meaningful look, and they could stop dancing on the precipice they'd built and stranded themselves on.

But the words to leave his lips were not, “Come in.” Rather, “Goodnight, Solas.”

Solas bowed his head slightly. When his head raised, his gaze pinned Lavellan, crystalline yet murky.

“Pleasant dreams, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor. Formal.

Lavellan closed the door, eye contact holding until the door clicked firmly shut. There was a pause before he heard Solas leave, footsteps fading.

The seconds passed. The silence dragged.

Lavellan leaned his forehead against the door, trembling, aching.

“Fenedhis,” he hissed, pushed himself off and rubbed his face as he made his way to his bed. He eyed the bed. Well, Solas had done it. He'd quelled Lavellan’s thoughts. Completely replaced them with something else. 

He collapsed on his bed, didn’t bother going beneath the covers. Lavellan let out a small yell of frustration before he buried his face in his pillow, turned his head because he couldn’t breathe, and glared at an unremarkable patch on the wall.

Still, his entire body had relaxed from the bath and massage. Without his meaning to, his eyes slipped shut. 

* * *

His bow glimmered golden in his hand, silver sword hanging from his waist.

Lavellan stood in the clearing, breaths fogging with every exhale as he stared up at the blood-orange moon. The back of his neck prickled. Someone watched him; hungry, waiting, curious. They prowled the border of the clearing, never left the shadows of the forest.

This seemed familiar. Where had he heard of a golden bow and silver sword before?

Sweetness in the air and water on his skin, but that memory faded.

 _Ve na_ [2], whispered the Well.

Lavellan turned, nocked a sunlit arrow, and drew the bow. Fluid, swift. Deadly.

A shadow shifted in the trees.

Red eyes gleamed. Six.

He tilted his head in clear challenge and loosed the arrow, laughed as it tore through the air in a cutting line of sunlight. It missed, but no matter. Hitting wasn’t the point.

The red eyes narrowed and a growl shook the air.

“Imara em, Fen’Harel,”[3] Lavellan taunted, resplendent in his thrill. “Or are you frightened?”

“Din, vun’lin. Ane na?”[4]

Lavellan nocked another arrow as his answer. “Come find out.”

Fen’Harel laughed and the trees shivered from the sound, canopies bending and bowing in deference, but Lavellan stood his ground even as the shadows grew. Even as the night sky darkened to near black and the stars hummed. Even as the stars swallowed the moon and the moon swallowed them back. Locked in a pyrrhic dance.

“Do you recall what I said last time?” asked the Dread Wolf. Lavellan stayed quiet, tracked Fen’Harel’s movements with his eyes, draw steady. “The next time we hunt?”

Lavellan grinned, too much teeth.

“You think you can hunt _me_?” asked Lavellan. “Should I flee from a man who will not even step out from his shadows?”

“These are not mine; they are yours,” he said and gave another of his rumbling laughs. The grass cowered. “I am in your dream, after all.”

“No nightmares for you to devour here.”

“Perhaps another thing entirely to devour here.”

Lavellan lowered his bow, smiling a secret, playful smile.

“You get ahead of yourself, fen’lin[5],” he said and Fen’Harel growled at the nickname. “Very well. If they’re truly my shadows—” He cast his hand out and dispelled the mist of darkness devouring the dream like a leeching poison. The shadows fled with a soft exhale. Blood-orange moonlight turned silver and _there_ stood Fen’Harel, a hulking lupine beast.

The Dread Wolf sighed but it was absent of true exasperation. His six eyes squinted, amused.

“This is hardly fair,” said Lavellan, appraising the large wolf. “You’ve four legs and I only have two. You’ll cover a greater distance than I.”

“A hunt is rarely ever fair, vun’lin.”

“Ah, so you’re saying you need an advantage because you can’t catch me otherwise?” His eyes narrowed in mirth. “I understand. Alright, I’ll grant you that mercy.”

Fen’Harel stared. Lavellan waited, smile widening.

“Very well,” Fen’Harel acquiesced and the darkness he was draped in cascaded off his form, collapsing into amorphous shadows which gathered, coalesced, and compacted into an elfin shape. The writhing shadows spilled and covered Fen’Harel like a cloak, curved over his head and hinted at a wolf’s head, covering the upper half his face.

He grinned back at Lavellan, teeth flashing in the moonlight. 

“There,” he said and his words echoed, layers upon layers of tones obscuring yet amplifying his true voice. “Two legs. Just like you.”

The shadows twisted around Fen’Harel, the fabric of the Fade bending to his will, bending from his power.

“Should we be doing this?” Lavellan asked. “I don’t fancy surprises from demons.”

“If I were you, vun’lin, I would worry about other things.”

“Such as running from _you_?” He scoffed. “I don’t fear you.”

“I am aware.” Fen’Harel stalked forward. That was the only way to describe it. It was no walk; it was a prowl ― movements sinuous and focused. “No matter. I will instil it in you.”

“You can certainly try.”

Fen’Harel tilted his head, shadows alive. 

Even if Lavellan couldn’t see his eyes, he still felt Fen’Harel’s gaze flitting over his skin like a fine brush of lightning.

Fen’Harel took another step forward. Lavellan cursed himself for taking one back.

Something in him stirred and recognised the danger, brought all of his senses on alert, focusing on every incremental movement Fen’Harel was making. Everything about Fen'Harel was shifting, dripping danger.

Lavellan coiled tight, muscles ready.

Fen’Harel smiled.

“Run,” he bid.

Lavellan ran.

He leapt into the safety of the trees and called his mist of shadows back. It descended upon the forest and the moon bled once more, warring with the stars which hummed in unison with his heart. Beat, beat, running from the Wolf.

His blood burned bright through his veins as he tore through the forest, the light from his bow and sword cutting through the darkness — turned him into a moving target. Lavellan nocked a golden arrow as he ran and loosed it randomly. Let its trailing light mislead.

The move seemed familiar. Where had he heard it before?

His shadows protected and blanketed and guided him. They would alert him to where the Wolf was, his presence tugging at the fringes of Lavellan's awareness. 

Lavellan cackled and ran towards the Wolf.

He scaled a tree and waited, watched as Fen’Harel came tearing through, his cloak of shadows thicker than Lavellan’s which was more fog than true darkness.

Lavellan shot an arrow at him. Let it miss. It landed by Fen'Harel's feet.

Fen’Harel’s shadows reached for him but he was already gone.

“Shem’el, shem’el, fen’lin!” he taunted into the forest. “Ma felas.”[6]

“Juithir,”[7] answered Fen’Harel, the croon of his voice seemingly coming from just behind his ear. Lavellan turned and slashed with his sword. Nobody there.

The uncertainty and apprehension crept in, quickened his heartbeat, turned him frantic and uneasy and―

And alive.

The energy of the Fade shimmered, weaving with the darkness. Ghosted over the back of his arms. 

Lavellan laughed as he sprinted. Feral, fiendish, and free. Everything within him sang. Here in the fog of his shadows, tearing through the forest like a wild little thing beneath the war hymns of ancient stars consuming the sanguine moon.

His ragged breaths shuddered against the walls of his lungs.

Alive.

The Wolf behind him.

Lavellan dodged and his airy laughter chimed as Fen’Harel’s shadow darted past and missed. It slunk back. Clever eyes among the trees watched Lavellan leave. Biding time.

“Josa, vun’lin. Junoran na.”[8]

“Ass,” Lavellan muttered.

Just to be annoying, Lavellan shot arrows into the sky as he ran.

Gold rained.

Somewhere, the Dread Wolf grumbled.

He wasn’t certain how long they continued this dance of shadow and light for, how long they ran in pursuit of one another, how long Lavellan jolted at every shadow that wasn’t his, how long he gleamed and sparked and shivered under the force of his exhilaration. 

But soon, no matter where he ran, the Wolf’s eyes would follow him. No matter where he hid. No matter where he waited.

Lingering gaze on his back.

Lavellan entered another clearing, but he remained safe in his shadows. He stood still, discerned where Fen’Harel could possibly be, but his shadows gave him nothing. No presence.

His shoulders tensed. No presence at all. There was nothing here but him and his too loud, too fast breaths.

No, that couldn't be right.

It was much too late when he realised that the shadows surrounding him were thicker. Too caught up in his thrill, in how the chase had electrified his nerves, to realise that these were no longer his shadows of mist. Little by little, Fen’Harel’s shadows had crept in. Small increments. He'd waited until the shadows Lavellan had thought were protecting him and alerting him to the Wolf’s whereabouts became entirely Fen’Harel’s.

A chuckle behind him, around him.

“Figured it out, have you?” The voice was by Lavellan’s ear, teasing the shell of it.

The shadows solidified behind him, warm. Familiar. Where from?

Lavellan tried to escape but Fen’Harel wrapped his arms around him and held him flush against his chest. Lavellan squirmed. 

“Hush, vun’lin. I've caught you.”

Fen’Harel trailed his hand down Lavellan’s arm and eased the bow away. It dematerialised under his touch. As did the sword.

The moon devoured the stars.

Lavellan’s rapid breaths echoed in the clearing and he growled at Fen’Harel.

“How long?” he asked.

He hummed, his shadows curving around Lavellan. “Who is to say? Just know that it was not your shadows which were alerting you to my presence, but rather, mine.”

“Why?” he hissed.

“Why? To make you complacent of course.” His arms tightened around Lavellan and one hand settled over Lavellan’s chest, over his thundering heart. The warmth of his touch seeped past the thin fabric of Lavellan’s tunic. “Besides, it was wondrous seeing you so… electrified.”

“Clever,” Lavellan praised begrudgingly. He turned his head and saw only the lower half of Fen’Harel’s face. The rest: shadows. Shadows which were curling around Lavellan’s legs and sides. This close to him, Lavellan could sense how the Fade was pulling around him. “For a coward hiding behind me and his shadows, at least.”

Fen’Harel tensed at his provocation. His fingers dug into the spaces of Lavellan’s ribs.

“Is that so?” he asked and turned Lavellan so they could face one another. The faint shadow of a wolf still stretched over his head, still hid the upper half of his face. His arms locked around Lavellan’s waist again, pulled him close, chest to chest. Could he feel the knock of Lavellan's heart?

“It is so,” said Lavellan. “And so you’ve caught me. Must be extremely anticlimactic for you.”

“On the contrary,” he said. The energy around him shivered from his delight, skittered over Lavellan’s skin. 

“So? What happens now?”

“Do you really not recall?”

“Recall what?” he asked. “That this entire chase mirrored one of your tales? I’m aware.” Lavellan paused. “How… do you know about that? Solas―” His voice died.

The recollection of the baths and the warmth and the haze and the unspoken things returned, and now here Solas was as Fen’Harel, finally touching Lavellan but not quite. Always did things in the world of dreams that he was unable to in the waking world.

“Solas made it up on the spot,” Lavellan finished softly. _For me._

“It is my castle, vun’lin,” said Fen’Harel. Smooth recovery. “I have ears in every wall.”

“Ah yes,” said Lavellan dryly, “will you answer if I call out your name when I touch myself at night?”

“I just might.”

“Well don’t. You’ll probably disappoint me.” 

Fen’Harel leaned close. “I wonder, vun’lin,” he murmured, “if your tongue tastes as silver as it sounds.”

Lavellan’s breath caught. He looked up at Fen’Harel but couldn’t find his eyes beneath the shadows. Lavellan frowned, reached for it. Fen’Harel flinched back but Lavellan gripped it tight, the shadows shivering beneath his hand, shifting to look as if it was snarling and Lavellan snarled back. 

“I am wild in my dreams, Wolf,” said Lavellan. “You do not scare me.”

Fen’Harel bared his teeth. “Mahanon,” he warned, a growl lacing within it. Lavellan ignored the trill of heat it sent trickling down his spine.

“I want to see your eyes,” he said and the admission stunned Fen’Harel into silence. Lavellan used that chance to peel the shadows away, muttering as he did because it was fighting to remain. Thick and viscous beneath his hand.

But slowly, slowly… He eased it away.

The shadows receded.

Electric, crystalline eyes stared back and Lavellan’s breath left him, caught in its intensity. Fen’Harel’s face settled yet slipped. He saw it, he knew he did, but the Fade twisted in such a way that any attempts to catalogue or remember it scattered his focus and so he had to content himself with seeing it as it was: a solid, real thing beneath his hand. He cupped Fen’Harel’s cheeks, traced curious fingers over the planes of his face.

“I can’t remember it,” said Lavellan. “You’re still hiding.”

Sorrow lingered in his eyes. It was the only thing which stayed static and so Lavellan kept his focus on them, saw Solas within. Lavellan swept his fingers beneath those eyes.

“It is better this way,” said Fen’Harel.

“You look so sad,” said Lavellan. Fen'Harel said nothing, merely watched Lavellan. “Do you still have no faith in love and its many forms? Do you still not trust it?”

Unimaginable sorrow twisted his expression. He raised one hand, tentatively placed it upon Lavellan’s cheek. Warm. The stars above them opposed the moon. 

“No,” said Fen’Harel. 

“No what?”

“No.” 

Lavellan’s hands trailed down from his face, passed over the flutter of his pulse on his neck, before finally settling on his chest. 

Fen’Harel leaned closer. As if he couldn’t quite stop himself. 

Lavellan should move away.

Should.

The hand on Lavellan’s cheek reached further, tangled in his hair and gripped, pulled gentle and careful to tip Lavellan's head back. Their gazes met. Lavellan bit his lip so no noise or shuddering exhales would escape.

Closer, closer. The distance between them lessened, charging with heat and lightning.

Fen’Harel’s other hand settled on the small of Lavellan’s back. 

“Say no,” Fen’Harel whispered, almost pleading, their breaths mingling.

Lavellan’s heartbeats rallied against his ribs, his hands fisting in the material of Fen’Harel’s shirt.

“Say no,” he said, head tilting, lips hovering.

Lavellan could do it. One word. One word and this would stop and they would avoid a terrible, overcomplicated mess. Fen’Harel was Solas and Solas was Fen’Harel. It wouldn’t do either of them good to separate the two.

“Say no,” he pleaded once more and Lavellan’s eyes closed.

They had both lost.

The rope snapped. The distance closed.

Their lips met, fierce and hungry and all-consuming and Lavellan almost buckled from the force of him.

The longing and ache seared and spilled into the heat of their mouths and the rolling press of their bodies, the desperate wanderings of their hands. Lavellan's heart thrummed like a war drum. Dizzied by the taste of power and wildness and lightning and ancient sins and fuck, fuck, fuck, he shouldn’t have missed this. Shouldn’t have―

The fingers in Lavellan’s hair fisted and pulled harder. Lavellan broke the kiss with a stray gasp but Fen’Harel chased his lips as a man parched in the desert would a mirage of water.

How did the story end? The Dread Wolf feasted on a star?

Lavellan bit Fen’Harel’s bottom lip, hard enough to tease the skin into breaking. Pushed until they fell to the forest floor and Lavellan straddled him, blood and sliding heat on his tongue, vicious.

Fen’Harel gripped Lavellan’s hips, fingers digging into yielding skin, and pushed Lavellan onto his back. Hands clawed, fingers curled. Fen’Harel’s lips and teeth brushed against his neck. Lavellan tipped his head back with a shuddering breath, bared more of his neck, moaned at the warring celestial bodies, fingertips sore from how hard he'd clawed at Fen’Harel’s back.

Fen’Harel cursed at the sound, lips drawing venerations upon Lavellan’s heated skin.

“Well, Wolf?” Lavellan asked, voice a ruined whisper. Fen’Harel scraped his teeth down the column of Lavellan’s throat and Lavellan trembled. “Do I taste silver?”

“No,” he breathed and kissed him once more.

There were many things Lavellan couldn’t say, couldn’t tell him, so he let his actions speak for him. In this land of dreams where nothing and everything could be said at once.

He snaked his arms around Fen’Harel’s neck and pressed themselves closer, beyond the possible boundaries of themselves. _I missed you_.

Fen’Harel pulled away with some difficulty, his lips red and bruised, the hint of blood. Their rapid breaths mingled in the cooling night.

Lavellan met his reverent, unfocused gaze.

And against his lips, Fen’Harel murmured the answer to Lavellan’s earlier question as if imparting a beautiful secret.

“Gold.”

* * *

Lavellan woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Haha bro, don't massage me in the baths with all this homoerotic tension bro. The readers are going to think we're into each other or something bro, haha." *obligatory two bros chilling in a hot tub reference here* 
> 
> This is why we adhere to social distancing rules, boys. Look what happened. You gave in to FeelingsTM and you've overcomplicated everything.
> 
> Listen, I spent way too much time agonising over and writing some of Solas' stories and their dialogue in Hallelujah cadence for it to go unnoticed so I'm pointing them out. Italicised is Lavellan.
> 
> "Back in the time of Elvhenan  
> there walked a proud, tempestuous man  
> who thought he knew the world and all it offered  
> He'd lost his faith for trust and love,  
> knew that to love was to be betrayed  
> and so he kept this castle cold and vacant. (extra alliteration because I just like it)
> 
>  _He sounds lonely_  
>  Do you think so?  
>  _Lost faith tells me_  
>  _that he first loved without reserve_ "
> 
> and
> 
> " _The hunter claimed that Fen’Harel_  
>  _would know the answer when, not if,_  
>  _he found a way to snare and catch the hunter._  
>  _This means it was deliberate,_  
>  _so that the trick the Dread Wolf sought_  
>  _would end up being his hidden yet sure downfall._
> 
>  _I know what makes_  
>  _the traps compelling._  
>  Oh? What felled him?  
>  _The illusion of victory._ "
> 
> Note that the storytelling begins with Solas’ story about Fen’Harel and it starts in the Hallelujah cadence. And then Lavellan offers the ending for The Clever Star in Hallelujah cadence. They frame the storytelling segment. They also sing the chorus together both instances with their dialogue and Solas always asks a question that leaves it up to Lavellan to reciprocate and finish the chorus. Lavellan reciprocates both times. Make of that what you will.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Syn ma eolasem? Ar'an gelir ma:** Did you know? We fear you[⇧]  
> [2] **Ve na:** Behind you[⇧]  
> [3] **Imara em, Fen'Harel:** Face me, Dread Wolf[⇧]  
> [4] **Din, vun'lin. Ane na?:** No, sunling. Are you?[⇧]  
> [5] **Fen'lin:** Wolfling[⇧]  
> [6]  
>  **Shem'el, shem'el, fen'lin:** Faster, faster wolfling  
>  **Ma felas:** You're slow[⇧]  
> [7] **Juithir:** We shall see[⇧]  
> [8] **Josa, vun'lin. Junoran na:** Run, sunling. I will catch you.[⇧]


	39. Where oaths break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how about that last chapter, huh?
> 
> hahahahah....
> 
> \-->[Solas' POV of that chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964/chapters/65357488)<\--

_walk among your fallen kin—_

* * *

He went through his morning routine in a daze, thoughts screaming yet silent, walked straight into the War Council with a smile he didn’t feel and a faint sting on his lips. His three advisors spoke of the ball and the preparations and he observed the map of the palace but nothing registered. The new information floated like leaves on a pond.

“―sitor? … Inquisitor!”

His head snapped up and he blinked at Josephine’s waiting look.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “what was that?”

“The inner circle will be here soon,” she said, patient. “Which issue would you prefer to discuss at this time?”

Focus. Lavellan cleared his throat. “Strategy,” he said. “Should there be fighting in the palace, I don’t want anyone caught off-guard.”

“Of course.”

The inner circle would be here soon.

He stared at the invitations on the table.

Solas would be here soon.

Dear fucking gods. He rubbed his eyes and paced as he waited, vaguely listening to the three advisors’ morning banter as he walked to the window and looked out, frowning at the clear sky. Winter was about to end. 

_Teeth scraping against your neck._ _Lips fierce yet yielding._

Lavellan shook his head. 

Why must they make everything so complicated?

Cullen put a hand to his shoulder and Lavellan jumped. 

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

Lavellan smiled. “Just tired.”

Cullen frowned and searched his expression but nodded.

The heavy doors to the War Room swung open behind him, followed by the inner circle's footsteps and chatter. Lavellan readied himself, still staring out the window, waiting until he had the strength to face them. Face Solas.

What was Solas thinking? 

His distress must have summoned Vergala because she flew into his field of vision and he smiled, calming, and he stretched his arm out for her to land on. She cawed at him. It seemed to ask, _Are you okay?_ He rubbed the underside of her beak.

“Have you eaten?” he asked her.

“Worms.”

He chuckled. “Very good.” She hopped on his shoulders and he took a breath before turning. His gaze met Cole’s wide-eyed stare, his lips parted and jaw slightly slack from whatever he'd sensed, and Lavellan subtly shook his head. Cole closed his mouth but his eyes remained wide. 

“Good morning,” Lavellan greeted. “You’re all here because you’re all going to suffer with me at the Grand Masquerade and we’re going to play the Game and it’s going to be a joyful time for all of us, I’m sure.”

“I do so love parties,” said Dorian. The tension between them was beginning to fade. Lavellan suspected they were about to have a talk soon. “Especially when there are scandals to hear of and partake in.”

Varric grumbled. 

“Don’t complain,” Cassandra muttered before he could speak.

“Hey! I was going to complain for us both.”

“Vivienne,” said Lavellan, “how goes the uniforms?”

She was already so immaculate this early in the morning. Well, she did sleep the earliest out of the lot of them. 

“Madame Sartre has received our measurements. I believe they will be delivered to Marquise Lorraine’s Halamshiral estate when we spend the week there.”

“I’ve seen them, they look fantastic,” said Dorian.

“Looks itchy,” said Sera.

Lavellan hadn’t seen them. They wished to surprise him, apparently.

“Sera? Map?” he asked.

She beamed and unslung the giant canister on her back, almost hitting Varric in the process, and she dumped the large map onto the table. 

“Friends came through,” she said. “Got all the secret places the servants go through… And vaults.”

“You’re a champion,” he praised and unrolled the map on the table and true enough, it detailed the secret passages.

“This place is fucking massive,” said Bull.

“Fucking massive,” Vergala repeated. Sera cackled. Lavellan reached up and covered the sides of Vergala’s head.

“You are corrupting the children,” Lavellan said.

“Oh so _now_ you care about the children!”

Cullen cleared his throat to disguise a laugh. “We must find a way to sneak soldiers and scouts into the palace, as well as weapons.”

“Emergency stashes or on our person?” asked Cassandra.

“It would depend.”

“We can set up emergency caches in important parts of the palace,” suggested Leliana. “For those who can manage to hide their weapons, we will wait until we have been checked for arms before surreptitiously delivering it to you so you may hide it. Otherwise, you’ll have to rely on the caches.”

Lavellan scrutinised the map as his companions conversed, felt eyes on him. Was that Cole, Solas, or someone else? He wasn’t brave enough to check. What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to act around Solas without giving too much away or without driving him back?

Why did Solas act on it as Fen’Harel? Why not as Solas?

Was Solas regretting it?

“―sitor?”

Solas had separated himself. Again. What did that mean for them? How was Lavellan supposed to approach this?

“ _Inquisitor_!”

Lavellan snapped to attention and he looked up at Josephine. She gave him another of her patient smiles.

They were waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” he answered with the conviction of a guilty man pleading innocence.

“Very good, Inquisitor,” she said, ever so patient, “but we were looking for a number.”

“Oh.” He cast out for a random number. “Forty-five?”

“Forty-five hidden caches?” asked Leliana, quirking a brow up. Lavellan pursed his lips to hide his grimace.

“Did I say forty-five? I meant to say four but changed my mind to five. I must have mixed the two up,” he said and laughed nervously. Flimsy as far as excuses went and Leliana knew it.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “An easy mistake to make this early in the morning.”

“Are you sure you didn’t mean to say fifty-six?” asked Blackwall. 

Bull grinned wide.

“Don’t you dare,” said Lavellan.

“We promise to say it in—"

“Less than five words,” he and Blackwall said in unison and guffawed along with the others who'd been told the story. Lavellan scowled.

“You should say that to the Empress,” said Varric, grinning.

“We’d get kicked out,” muttered Lavellan. “Then her pretty little neck is going to be slit or something worse.” And somehow, some way, an elf would get blamed because that was how shitty Orlais was.

“That took a turn.”

Josephine frowned at Lavellan, had been squinting throughout that exchange. She put her board down.

“Inquisitor, perhaps we should discuss these at a later time?” she suggested.

He blinked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“The masquerade plans. You seem a little… distracted this morning. Why don’t you relieve yourself for today? We will handle some of the preparations which don’t require your immediate attention.”

“Ambassador Montilyet, are you sidelining me?”

“Merely expressing concern for your well-being, Inquisitor Lavellan.” Her expression was gentle but her eyes were resolute and he knew no matter what he did, he would still somehow find himself out of the War Room. _Best not embarrass yourself_ , the glint in her eyes said.

“You have not been sleeping again,” said Cassandra. “It is evident.”

“Yeah, actually. Why don’t you go back to bed, Glowy? We’ll take it from here. You rest up before the inevitable shitstorm in Orlais.”

“I slept just fine last night,” he grumbled. Still couldn’t meet Solas’ eyes. “I actually got a full night’s rest.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ve shocked your body with it,” said Dorian, waving him off. “After subsisting on subpar sleep for so long. Go take a long nap.”

“Naps give me a headache.”

“Go and relax then, darling. Perhaps try the baths?” suggested Vivienne. Lavellan pressed his lips.

“I’ve already tried it,” he said, carefully. “It’s why I fell asleep last night.”

“That’s excellent news, darling. Perhaps a nightly routine at the baths will help you.”

Lavellan quite suspected it wasn’t the baths which had made him sleepy but rather his companion. And his stories. 

And hands.

Stop.

“Maybe,” he said instead and congratulated himself on the steady delivery.

“It was warm, and sweet,” murmured Cole and Lavellan shrieked internally. “Then it was dark, and wild.”

“Fine,” Lavellan cut in before Cole could continue. “I’ll go. Garden or something. But you let me know right away if I’m needed for something.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” said Josephine, smiling in victory.

“You make the plants happy,” said Cole.

“I make the plants happy. That is so much better,” Lavellan mumbled to himself and walked around the table (the side opposite Solas). He swept out of the room and closed the door behind him. Vergala looked at him.

“Wow,” she cawed. He didn’t think birds could sound so sarcastic.

“You’re getting awfully smug for a bird that I can roast over a fire.”

“Wow,” she said again, undeterred.

* * *

Lavellan patted the soft and cold soil, made sure the elfroot would hold. There. Finished. He stood and wiped the sweat from his brow, beaming at his herb garden.

Ghoul’s beard was draped along the walls with rashvine for some colour (although those were dangerous so he'd gated the herb garden so children wouldn’t find their way into it). Two thin beds boasted an array of all the herbs they could get their hands on for healing. The ones in the pots were more for cooking than alchemy ― mints, basils, parsleys, etcetera. He'd been working away at it intermittently and now he was finished. 

The berries on the Prophet’s Laurels gleamed like small crystals of fire. Glinted against the green sea. 

Halfway through his gardening, he felt eyes trained on his back, already knew who it was. Lavellan watered the new additions and washed his hands as he did. Solas approached.

What was he here to do? Tell Lavellan last night was a mistake and assume Lavellan would think of the baths while Solas meant a completely different thing? Apologise for being out of line? Ignore it had happened?

Honestly, Lavellan would prefer it if they just ignored it had ever happened.

What in the Void was he supposed to do about Fen’Harel?

“Solas,” Lavellan greeted once he was near enough.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted back. Not lethallin. He looked as if he hadn’t meant to come over. And he probably hadn't.

“What do you think?” asked Lavellan and stepped back to appraise the garden because that was easier.

“You’ve done well,” was his soft reply. “It will be of great help to our healers, I’m certain.”

Lavellan gripped the handle of the watering can but kept his expression neutral. “Thank you,” he said. “What did you discuss when I left?”

“Nothing of great import. You and your advisors have already discussed it at an earlier date.”

He nodded. “Good.” Almost wept at how stilted their conversation was.

Silence. The soft chatter of those spending their morning in the garden, wind cooling his sun-heated skin.

“Inquisitor, about last night―”

“Play chess with me.”

Solas started at the abrupt interjection and Lavellan swept past him towards the gazebo. It was more of an order than a request. Solas had no choice but to follow.

Lavellan opened the drawer in the table and set up the chessboard, gave Solas no time to comprehend what had just happened before Lavellan sat. White pieces in front of him. Solas usually played white. Not today. He sat himself opposite Lavellan without complaint but the curiosity glimmered in his eyes, studied Lavellan as though he were something fascinating.

They played the game in complete silence. Any attempts at conversation would be forced anyway and Lavellan needed to think. Besides, it would distract Solas enough. Stop him from spiralling into his regret.

Solas smiled at one point during a certain manoeuvre.

Lavellan scoffed. “Don’t get smug.” First thing said since the start of the game. “You don’t have me just yet.”

“If so, then I would omit the ‘just yet.’”

Oh good, trash talk. He could do trash talk. 

“Should I?” He moved his winning piece and leaned back, haughty. “Check.”

Solas stared at the board, smile vanishing, replaced by a frown. He was trapped. Solas sighed and moved a piece though it was futile.

“Checkmate,” Lavellan sang when he moved his knight and smiled. Solas smiled back.

“Well played,” he praised.

“I know.”

Solas shook his head, still smiling, before he looked away and watched the garden. It was a calm morning.

Lavellan watched Solas instead.

He wasn’t sure why he was expecting Solas’ lips to show evidence of what they’d done last night. Expected it to be somewhat swollen with an almost unnoticeable line of hardened blood from when Lavellan had bitten it.

None of that. All in a dream.

What were they supposed to do now?

“What about last night?” Lavellan asked despite his better judgement. It wasn’t as if he could ignore this until it went away, try as he might.

Solas looked back at him, then his gaze dropped to their finished game.

“I… wished to apologise,” he said and Lavellan’s hands clenched over his lap. “If I overstepped. I realise my behaviour may have been inappropriate.”

“It wasn’t,” said Lavellan. “You didn’t overstep.”

He looked up at Lavellan then. That wasn’t what he wished to apologise for. 

Another uneasy silence.

His saving grace came, surprisingly or perhaps not, in the form of Dorian who came sauntering up to them with an easy smile. 

“Inquisitor?” he asked. “Our dear Commander dearly wishes to speak with you. Something about a Samson fellow.”

Lavellan blinked. “Oh. Of course. Okay.” He gave Solas a meaningful look though he wasn’t sure what he wished to convey. “It’s fine, Solas. Really. You know I never hesitate to make a fuss if you do or say something I dislike.” _I didn’t say no last night even when you'd begged me to, even if it was the wise thing to do, did I?_

“It’s true,” Dorian piped up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about though.”

“See? Third party agrees.”

Solas’ troubled look didn’t fade but the rigid line of his shoulders relaxed, somewhat. Lavellan swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to depart. This double speak business was exhausting.

Dorian placed a gentle hand on Lavellan's shoulder as he passed.

“Wait, before you go,” he murmured. “I… May we talk? Later. Or whenever. I understand you’re very busy.” He sighed. “I’ve thought about what you said and I― I've talked Bull’s ears off enough. And I suppose, you are the one I must apologise to.”

Lavellan smiled wryly. “What’s this? Two handsome men come to grovel for my forgiveness on the same day? My, my, I _am_ blessed.”

Dorian laughed. “Quite,” he said though his eyes glinted in intrigue at the prospect of Solas coming for an apology. His expression sobered. “I _am_ serious though.”

“I know,” said Lavellan softly. He patted Dorian's shoulder lightly. “Let’s meet on the battlements at dusk. Near the stables.”

“How romantic,” teased Dorian.

Lavellan laughed but it was hollow and all he could think of were the stars and the moon consuming each other for all eternity — an everlasting war. 

When he met with Commander Cullen in his office, it was to a lyrium kit being hurled at his face. He ducked in time. The vials and droppers crashed on the floor and Cullen jumped.

“Maker’s breath, forgive me,” he said.

Lavellan stared at the box. “ _Three_ handsome men asking for forgiveness,” he said dryly. “Truly a good day.”

“I… sorry?”

“Don’t worry about it. Now then, I believe you’re in need of a hug. As am I, I think. No, Commander, you’re not getting out of it, don’t give me that face.”

* * *

He and Dorian spoke from dusk to night.

Each made the other a promise. 

To rise for one another when change was demanded. 

* * *

A week later, Lavellan crossed his arms and watched the procession of carriages pulling up in Skyhold, their luggage being loaded onto some of them. 

“Are you ready?” asked Dorian behind him.

“Ready to leave or ready to face the no doubt piss-poor conditions in Halamshiral?”

“Bit of both.” He stood beside Lavellan. It was nice that they were on talking terms again. This life or the previous life, Dorian was still one of his closest friends and being devoid of his company had highlighted the gap he'd filled in Lavellan’s heart. Dorian was still coming to terms with the whole ‘Slavery sucks, stop doing it’ idea, and he still slipped and said insensitive things sometimes, but he was trying and Lavellan could never fault anybody for that.

“Worship,” greeted someone. Lavellan turned. It was Samara, the stablehand. She smiled at him, dark eyes gleaming, smile warm and genuine, and even if she were a Fen’Harel agent, Lavellan could tell she was loyal to him, too.

What would happen if she had to choose?

“Morning, Samara,” he greeted. She always perked when he remembered her name. “How’s Ahmael?” Her son. Lavellan had seen him around, toddling as toddlers did. Blackwall would shower the boy with handmade gifts — a wooden rocking horse, wooden wheeled dragon, so on and so forth. Then again, he would shower all the children with handmade gifts.

“He’s started getting an interest in mice.” She sighed. “Of all the animals…”

“Still putting rocks in his mouth?”

“No, thank the Maker.” 

“I hope Master Dennet isn’t too fussed that we’re taking out half of his best steeds.”

“Complained about it the whole way through the night,” she said. “But he brushed them solid. I’m sure he’s secretly happy you’re parading his mounts through Orlais.”

“Will you come to Halamshiral too?”

“After the initial preparations, yes. Master Dennet can’t come to tend to the mounts for your return so he’s sending me along with a small retinue. You’ll see us around.”

He nodded. “Who’s taking care of Ahmael?” 

“My wife is staying back to watch over him,” she said and smiled. “I’m not too worried.”

Lavellan gave her a look.

“Maybe a little,” she mumbled and frowned.

He laughed and patted her shoulder. “Understandable enough. I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Josephine called for him and he sighed. “Off I go. Wish me luck.”

“Take care, Inquisitor.” She hesitated, something dark lingering in the corners of her eyes. “Halamshiral is a graveyard.”

They shared a solemn look.

He looked away and murmured, “For now.”

She stared. He merely gave her a small smile and a soft farewell. She was a lovely woman, kind. He enjoyed conversing with her before and after his journeys into and out of Skyhold when he would return the mounts, but he was always wary.

If his memory was correct, she was a shapeshifter.

“She seems to like you,” said Dorian once they were out of earshot. “You really make an effort to know the people working for you.”

“I have to,” he said. “They’re still people. I can’t let them fade in the background.”

“This is why you’re a good man.”

He shot Dorian a side glance. “And to keep an eye on spies.”

Dorian paused on a step but kept walking. “This is why you’re also an alive man.” He frowned. “Is she…?”

“No,” he lied.

They reached the carriages and Josephine gestured at the foremost one. 

“Well, I’ll see you when we reach Halamshiral,” said Dorian and waved goodbye. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“I’d say the same, but I suspect you’ll have enough entertainment being stuck with Solas and Vivienne in the same carriage. Whose idea was that again?”

“Mine,” said Dorian. “Mage to mage talk, you know?”

“Does that involve trash-talking Solas’ clothes?”

“You know us very well.”

Lavellan laughed. “Go easy on the poor man. He enjoys the image he’s cultivated.”

“You enjoy that image he’s cultivated.”

He scoffed and swung into the carriage, closed it on Dorian’s laughing face. He sat beside Cullen and looked up to Leliana and Josephine’s mischievous smiles.

“What?” he asked.

“You did not answer,” said Leliana, smile growing.

“It did not deserve one.”

“I see,” she said.

Lavellan huffed and looked out the window as the carriage moved, thus beginning the journey to Halamshiral. His jaw clenched. 

This. Was going to suck.

For the first week, they would stay at the Lorraine Estate and spend the Wintersend celebrations there, and Josephine already had about five plays she wanted to drag him off to. Then more preparations for the ball, greeting other nobles, last-minute lessons… A lot.

The ball would be held on the Monday of the second week. 

They discussed the ball, discussed the more fun aspects of it. Lavellan wished he could talk to Leliana about the espionage, the secrets, the scandals, the hidden thrill of knowing somebody’s secrets and using your words to subtly turn the tide of the conversation. It was a battle of a different manner. Not that he could. Would raise too many questions.

So he sat and smiled and agreed in his head.

> _The dancers weave and sway with the ethereal, layered music. Silks and sheer satin drape our nimble bodies and I see the crowd far better than if I were within it. See the bored, the unimpressed, the wowed, the desirous, the scheming._
> 
> _I find my mark. They leave amidst the revelries._
> 
> _Once the song ends and the dancers retreat, I slip away and peel the satin, peel the silk, wave my magic upon my face and change it once more. Someone unremarkable. I pass a servant and grab the offered serving garb, change my clothes as swiftly as I change my face. Gone is the lithe dancer. Here is the meek servant._
> 
> _I encounter another servant and I take their tray._
> 
> _There is a poisoned drink amidst the dozen arrayed._
> 
> _I know which it is._
> 
> _I know who to give it to._
> 
> _And they will never even see me._
> 
> _“Good luck, Isha’belsal’in[1],” the servant murmurs as they pass._
> 
> _“I do not need it.”_

Lavellan knocked his head against the side of the carriage and hissed, rubbing the sore spot, and his advisors blinked at him in surprise. He laughed nervously.

“Uh, sorry, spaced out,” he said.

“Do you always hit your head when you space out?” asked Cullen, faint smile on his lips.

“I promise not to do it in front of the Orlesian nobles.”

“Please refrain,” said Josephine. 

Lavellan looked out the window once more and mulled on the memory. So he'd also been involved in courtly intrigue? Was he Dirthamen’s spymaster? Or was Dirthamen the spymaster? The spymaster of the spymaster? Agent of the spymaster?

He leaned his chin on his elbow and frowned.

Changed faces. Literally changed faces. Used magic to literally rearrange his face. Yes… he had… Lavellan looked down at his hands and for a brief second, existence crushed him, grew bars and cages and wrapped tight like a noose. Constricted with every breath. Every movement. Something within him reached out and met a barrier and it shrieked and screeched and the Well roared and his vision whited and _what has he done? What has he done? This was too far, Rebel―!_

He jolted and knocked his head again. His advisors’ concerned looks met his wide-eyed one.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” asked Cullen. 

“I think I’m just tired,” he lied. “Nothing that a solid sleep can’t fix.”

Leliana eyed him but said nothing else.

Lavellan looked out the window as the advisors continued their previous conversation. His fingertips tingled. Pressure around his being. Faded as the seconds passed. Isha’belsal’in, the servant had called him… Yes, the Man of Many Faces. Another name. A figure of legend, the name parents would threaten their children with if they misbehaved. The name whispered in either fear, awe, or a mix of either.

_“Behave or else Belsal’in will take you.”_

_“He could be anywhere, could be one of us, so hold your tongue.”_

But those thoughts took a backseat upon arrival at Halamshiral. The carriages went straight to the High Quarter where the humans resided, where the nobles resided, so that the Halamshiral slums weren’t the first thing that visitors would see. But over the ornate walls, he could still catch glimpses of the slums and the dreary and incongruous backdrop they made. His lips pursed. 

“Inquisitor,” said Leliana softly, a silent question.

Lavellan stayed quiet, kept his eyes trained on the small sliver beyond until it disappeared behind rich blue walls and perfectly trimmed hedges.

“You know what the elves call the Dales, don’t you?” he asked his advisors. Upon their silence, he gave them a grave look. “The Promise.”

* * *

Marquise Lorraine was a gentle, if eccentric woman with a passion for taxidermy.

Solas eyed the stuffed wolf in the foyer.

Lavellan shuffled away from the ravens. Vergala outright said, “No,” and flew out the window.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” she greeted, Orlesian accent dripping like syrup over her words. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you! I have heard the greatest tales.”

He took her offered hand and planted a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

“The pleasure is all mine, Marquise Lorraine,” he returned. “Pray tell, what stories about me have you heard?”

“All good things, I assure you,” she said. 

His companions offloaded their things and servants scurried about. Sera shared a look with one of them. Red Jenny. Sera caught him looking and winked. He smiled faintly and sent a subtle nod.

Marquise Lorraine gave them a tour of the important areas of the estate, speaking of politics in the meantime. Lavellan smiled the whole way, knew how to make it look sincere, make it look as if he cared more than two rat’s asses, and the afternoon wore on like that until his cheeks hurt and his palms stung from his nails digging into it. Marquise Lorraine’s servants were mostly elves and she treated them politely. Lavellan wasn’t sure how much of that was a show for him.

After the pleasantries were well and out of the way, Lavellan retreated into his designated room and slammed the door shut.

Opulent room. Marble floors, lush carpet, bed with ornate headboard, paintings of forests. Lavellan opened the window. No view except the large garden the estate boasted.

A week. Here. Creators have mercy. He never wanted to spend more than two days in Orlais.

Too big and lonely here. 

He left the room and hunted for his companions, following the laughter and loud noises. Lavellan entered a large salon where the others had set up the table. He spotted the cards on the table. Grinned.

“Should I join or am I going to wind up losing my clothes again?” he asked.

“You are absolutely not allowed to join,” said Varric. “Some of us are still in debt.”

“Get better then,” he laughed.

“Sera, go chase him out.”

Lavellan ran from Sera. They slipped on a carpet during their chase and almost broke a vase but it didn’t actually break so that was _not important_.

* * *

He grew restless. 

The ball was two nights away.

Josephine had dragged him off to five different plays which were all somehow loosely connected in the most obscure of ways and he did enjoy piecing the stories together, but cramming five plays in three days was a little too much.

Yet they never left the High Quarter.

In Ferelden, the elves numbered few among the humans and so they were sequestered in an alienage.

In Halamshiral, the elves outnumbered humans and so it was the humans who'd holed themselves away up in the High Quarter. Sometimes, he saw the Winter Palace depending on where he was. Sometimes, he saw the slums.

His gaze would linger on the slums, considering, but duty would always drag him away.

Not today.

Come dusk, he geared himself. Enough for protection, but nothing that would attract attention. Lavellan threw a cloak over himself and pulled the hood up because among the city elves, Dalish elves were legends — almost mystical beings who lived in the forests. His vallaslin would cause more trouble than it was worth. Josephine would pinch his ear.

And so, he slipped away.

Vergala surveyed in the skies, occasionally perched herself atop rooftops. He stopped at the guarded gates to the High Quarter, chewed on his lip, gaze trailing towards the walls. Anyone who left the High Quarters would garner attention and that was rather contrary to what he wanted. 

Lavellan stuck to the shadows of the twilight. He jumped on a passing wagon, propelled himself towards the wall, gripped its edge, and jumped off. He landed into a roll and grimaced as his shins jarred.

And he was out.

Halamshiral was a large city and he wasn’t sure why he even visited the Low Quarters. What was he hoping to accomplish? To depress himself? To see the truth and realise there really was nothing he could do for them despite his grand, sweeping statements to Solas? To anger himself? 

Residences in relatively good conditions surrounded the High Quarters. For the higher-ranking servants maybe.

Lavellan walked.

Soon, the neighbourhood grew destitute. Lavellan stuck to the torch-lit alleys, ignored the shady gatherings and minded his own business.

There were blockaded areas in the slums, the buildings beyond crumbled and blackened by the fire Celene had ordered set a year ago. Where were the elves who used to live there now? Were they even granted the courtesy of another home?

If they didn’t die, that was.

Whatever rebellious fighting spirit the elves had a year ago was gone, stamped out by Celene and the difficulties of the civil war ― stamped out by the petty disputes of nobles. 

A few shot Lavellan looks as he passed. He kept his head down.

The roads were narrow and unmaintained, derelict homes like mismatched blocks stacked upon each other to dangerous heights and shoved close. If only to house more in one area. People hung their laundry on the lines across the buildings, the faded clothes fluttering like banners. Parents came home for the day, entering their homes with their spouses or children greeting them at the door. Children laughed and played in the bowels of the slums without a care for the danger because the only danger would have been from humans or strangers. The elves of Halamshiral looked after one another.

Surviving, reaching for the next day with all they had. 

Guards made the rounds. Lavellan paused, stayed at the mouth of an alley and watched them pass. As did the elves. They halted their activities, trained their gazes upon the guards, followed their every move. Either in fear or intimidation. He wasn’t sure. Likely both. 

One of the children came running out squealing from a road, unaware.

He crashed into the guards.

Everybody tensed and Lavellan was already readying himself, ready to launch himself forward if needed. 

The little boy staggered back, eyes wide.

“Watch it,” grunted the guard and shoved the boy away.

Lavellan gritted his teeth. The boy crashed onto his legs and elbows and quickly scurried away, bleeding from the scrapes.

Once the guards passed, everybody relaxed. He peered around the corner and found a woman tending to the little boy's wounds. He wasn’t crying. 

No, he remained silent, lips thinned as he pressed them so tight that the red had lightened into white. And his large eyes burned.

Such vitriolic anger on such a young face.

Halamshiral was a simmering pot. It would burst one day when the humans weren’t looking. Last year’s small rebellion was not the explosion, merely the first sputter of steam. He was wrong. Celene had not stamped out the fight. 

She'd given it fuel.

It would consume her if she wasn’t careful, and this time, no Briala to help her.

Or it could consume Gaspard. Dependent on the outcome of the peace talks. He still hadn’t made up his mind about who would get to keep the throne. It was no use playing humble at this point. His decision would be consequential for Orlais in two nights, he’d make damn sure of it. Lavellan would come barrelling in through their front door, he would play their Game, and he would _hang_ them all with the strings that they manipulated others with.

The dark thoughts took him aback. He shook his head. Tone it down. He wasn’t there to murder the whole court.

Maybe.

Joking!

Maybe.

Lavellan moved on. 

The whole minding his own business thing didn’t work for long. He passed four elves, all of them watching him as he walked. It was night now. The torches barely lent any illumination. 

He turned a corner. Movement behind him. 

Vergala cawed twice.

Two sets of footsteps followed him. Where were the other two? Must be above him, on the roof.

This alley was so damn long.

Were they armed? How skilled were they at fighting? Hit and runners? Muggers?

Well, he was about to find out.

One leapt at him from the roof. Lavellan stepped aside and kicked their back, the momentum doing most of the work. The other three jumped to action.

A knife flashed.

He dodged, arrested the wielder’s wrist, twisted and threw them over his shoulders right into their charging friend. Ducked the swing of the fourth elf. Jabbed into their gut with his elbow.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Lavellan.

His answer was a punch.

Lavellan rolled with the hit and crouched, swept his leg and hooked. His puncher fell and flailed. Lavellan's cheek throbbed. Oh gods, Jo was going to murder him.

The one with the knife swung at him again, expression enraged in the firelight. 

Lavellan rolled away, pulled the hood back up before they could see his face and fuck, the hood was blocking his peripheries.

Just as he thought that, some asshole tackled him from the side.

They sprawled on the slick alley floors. The slick wasn’t water.

“Hold him!”

Lavellan threw the scrawny man off him without a problem, though he took care not to hurt him too badly.

Knife de Slash swung again and Lavellan ducked, rose and hooked his arm around Knife's neck and threw him against his friend. Lavellan was doing an awful lot of throwing people against other people. They'd given him little choice.

“Now, now,” Lavellan tried to placate, “I’ve no money on me.”

“We’re not looking for your money, shem,” one hissed.

“Ah.” He sidestepped another slash. Right, that knife had to go. “I’m not human.” Lavellan slipped in close to Knife de Slash. He jolted back in alarm but Lavellan held their wrist, twisted harshly, and he cried out. The knife dropped. Lavellan kicked it away and leapt back from the answering punch.

“You’re still a stranger,” spat another. “We don’t welcome strangers here. We’re not an attraction.”

They regrouped, ganged up on him. Wild and furious in the torchlight.

Three.

Hang on, where was the―

Tackled once more! At this rate, even Revasha would be disappointed. And rightly so. His tackler was more solid than the scrawny one from earlier, heavier.

His head knocked back against the stone. Oh fucking hell.

He waited for the blow but none came. Lavellan blinked at the elf above him. Younger than he'd thought. Couldn’t have been older than twenty. His eyes were wide as he glanced down at Lavellan, fist pulled back, but it stayed pulled. Lavellan frowned. Why wasn’t he―

His hood had fallen off.

Ah, shit.

The vallaslin.

He scrambled off Lavellan as if he were a ghost. A legend. And he was, to them. Lavellan clicked his tongue and sat up, rubbing the back of his head. The four huddled back like frightened little ducklings, and all they could do was stare and gawk.

Who wasn’t the attraction now?

Lavellan waited, made sure he wasn’t concussed, and slowly stood . No dizziness. Just a throb. Good. 

The four watched him. Unsure.

“I did try to ask nicely,” he said.

Knife de Slash stepped forward. His fair hair was tied back, dark eyes glimmering with equal parts wonder and fear and Lavellan almost sighed.

“Please, hahren,” he started, somewhat jilted, as if he was struggling to remember the word. “Accept our sincerest apologies. We… We thought you were― We misjudged.”

“Who’d you think I was?” he asked and shoved the hood back on. It smelled like piss. He smelled like piss. Great.

“We thought you were a spy. Or someone the shems sent to start shit up.”

“Ah, sorry to take your heroics from you then. Not here to start shit up.”

“Are you here to help with the disappearances?” asked the other at the back. The one who'd tackled him and scrambled away. He was the broadest of the lot, nose crooked as if it had been broken numerous times. 

Lavellan regarded them. Disappearances?

Another elbowed Tackle. Thin, shortest of them. Scruffy-haired. The one who'd tackled Lavellan first. Whose idea was that? Although, Lavellan supposed he looked misleadingly scrawny with a cloak on him.

“The Dalish aren’t magical saviours come to save us when we’re in trouble. They don’t give two shits about us,” said Scruffy.

“They most definitely aren't magical saviours,” agreed Lavellan. “But luckily for you, I give more than two shits. Tell me about these disappearances.”

Scruffy frowned at him. “Why?”

“Damn, I don’t know,” he said.

They stared at him. He gave no other answer.

“Maybe we should discuss this elsewhere,” said the last of them. Tight cap on their head, blonde curls escaping.

“Why?” Scruffy asked again. “What can he do that we haven’t already tried?”

“He has daggers on him, did you notice?” asked Cap.

Scruffy hesitated. The other two stared. 

“He… He does?”

Lavellan lifted his cloak and showed the two daggers with a smile, made his vallaslin shift. That was still his favourite trick. Maybe that was the true reason why he'd wanted to keep it. What would Solas do if he said, “No, I want to keep it because I can scare people when I make my face muscles move a certain way”?

“And you saw how he moved,” continued Cap, eyes squinting as they studied him. “We had so much trouble getting him down and he’s barely even huffed. He could have drawn his daggers and killed us in seconds but he didn’t.” Not bad.

“He’s still only one person,” huffed Scruff.

“Better than just us four,” said Tackle. Lavellan should really learn their names.

They faltered at that, and glanced at Lavellan who was still lost but all he knew was that there was trouble in Halamshiral’s streets. More than usual.

“Well, what do you have to lose?” Lavellan asked and shrugged. “I’m all ears.”

“We would welcome your help, hahren,” said Knife. “But we also can’t be sure of your intentions. Why are you here? The Dalish don’t come to the city.”

“Not usually,” said Lavellan. “I’m an exception, I suppose. I travel around. I help my clan better if I'm away from them.”

“Help with what?” asked Scruffy.

“Surviving.” All his humour had gone from his voice and they sensed the sudden shift. “Well, you’ve piqued my interest now, little merry band of four. Are you the only ones looking into these disappearances?” How had he not heard of such a thing? 

Ah, right.

The nobles didn’t give a shit.

“The guards won’t do anything,” spat Scruffy. “Got punched the other day for being annoying.”

Lavellan scowled.

“Let’s talk about this elsewhere,” said Knife. “Come on.”

They led Lavellan further down the road and entered an establishment which looked the same as all the others, but the interior had been turned into a tavern. Sawdust littered the floor to absorb spilled drinks and unsavoury fluids. Lavellan earned a few looks from the crowd, but he hoped the dim light would cast enough shadows to obscure his vallaslin. Vergala flew in and rested on the rafters along with the other birds who'd made their way inside.

Merry Band of Four sat at an unoccupied corner table. Lavellan settled himself where he could keep an eye on the tavern. It was loud enough here to drown out gossip.

“About a month ago,” started Knife, leaning in close while Tackle ordered drinks to blend in, “the butcher’s daughter disappeared. Arana. The guards say she must have run away but we know Arana. She loves her family, takes care of her siblings. She wouldn’t just leave them. Not like that. She’d at least leave a letter. Next week, two more girls disappear. Then the next, five. Eight missing girls. Guards won’t do shit.”

“My sister went missing,” said Tackle, expression twisting into something bitter. “I want to find her.”

“We’re all friends. We wanted to help,” explained Cap.

“Are you four part of a larger group?” asked Lavellan.

“We’re not working with the thieves’ guild if that’s what you’re implying,” hissed Scruffy, bristling.

“Easy, da’len,” he said. “I wasn’t implying anything. I was just asking if you’re a dedicated organised group or just four elves who saw something wrong and decided to do something about it.” He appraised Scruffy. “Although, you gave a valiant attempt to pick my pockets earlier. I think you would’ve succeeded in pilfering valuables off me if I'd been carrying them.”

Scruffy stared at him, face tense, and Lavellan stared back in challenge, gaze steady.

Knife sighed. “Fine. We run with the thieves every now and again, but this isn’t something they can help with. We’re on our own for this.”

“Besides,” said Cap, tone turning morose, “nobody wants to risk angering the nobles. Not after―” They cut themselves off and looked away. 

Not after the Halamshiral rebellion.

“Alright, and what have you got so far?” asked Lavellan.

They shared a look.

“With all due respect, hahren,” started Knife, “you’ll have to forgive us for being apprehensive.”

“Nothing to forgive. I’d be suspicious too,” he said. “But listen, do you have any other choice? If it’s truly been almost a month, then you need to hurry. I wouldn’t go off believing fairy tales about the Dalish being noble protectors of the city elves because they’ve got their own surviving to do. However―” he leaned forward and smiled― “this Dalish _is_ willing to help, if you’ll let him.”

Scruffy narrowed his eyes. “How can you alone help?”

“Ever killed a dragon before?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Ever killed darkspawn? Mercenaries? Mages? Templars? Demons?”

“You’re not seriously saying you’ve killed those things,” said Scruffy.

“I can say them again without smiling,” he said.

Knife frowned. “Anybody can brag, hahren.”

“That’s true,” said Lavellan. “But I’m not here to prove my prowess. Merely offer assistance. Say no and I’ll walk right out of here.” Tough shit, Lavellan was still going to investigate it. “Say yes and I’ll listen and help. Discuss it amongst yourselves if you’d like.”

The four of them glanced at one another. Meanwhile, Lavellan watched the patrons of the tavern, discouraged any onlookers with a sharp stare, and gathered inferences from observing random people. Warm-up for the ball.

Still, what could have caused the disappearances? Fellow elves? Kidnappings? Murders? These four didn’t even consider the possibility of murder which meant they knew something which ruled it out. Was Briala on the case? Was she even aware of it?

“Alright hahren,” said Knife and Lavellan snapped back to attention. “Nobody else will help us. And I suppose, if it came down to a fight…”

“I don’t just fight, da’len,” he said. “But alright, the fact that you think it may come down to a fight suggests to me you know something. Am I wrong?”

Cap eyed him. “You’re astute.”

“It’s why I’m alive.”

Their drinks came. Lavellan didn’t touch his.

“Some of our contacts in the thieves’ guild have noted strange activity near the eastern outskirts of the city,” said Tackle. “By the river.”

“What’s in the eastern outskirts?” Lavellan asked.

“Old warehouses. Near the old docks.”

Lavellan frowned. Missing people, specifically female elves, near the docks where it was easy to get away. He had a suspicion, but he’d keep listening. He could be wrong.

He hoped he was wrong.

“They saw wagons going in and out the road to the docks,” said Knife. “Those roads aren’t used anymore so nobody would have noticed usually. It was luck that our contact had a job nearby and noticed.”

“When do they happen?” asked Lavellan. “In relation to the disappearances I mean.”

“A few days after.”

“Could be moving to a secondary location then. Common tactic,” he mumbled. “Lose the trail.”

“They also saw hooded figures haunting the docks,” said Cap.

“Ah, is that why you jumped me?” asked Lavellan. “Surely I’m not the only one who wears a cloak around here.”

“No, but you were the first one we didn’t recognise,” said Scruffy. “Might as well take our chances.”

“That was incredibly stupid, I hope you know,” said Lavellan. “What if I had turned out to be the kidnapper? What if I was a mage? A soldier? Someone who could have easily killed you? Always scout someone out before you decide to attack them.” 

They at least looked chided.

“We were getting desperate,” admitted Tackle. “ _I_ was getting desperate. I insisted. You’re right, I could’ve gotten us killed.”

Knife nudged him. “We all agreed to it too. We share the blame.” He looked at Lavellan. “This is all we have so far. Do you still think you can help, hahren?”

Lavellan leaned back and hummed, considering it.

“I can only return for tomorrow night,” he said. “So if you want to move things along, I’m going to need you four to scout out the warehouses and find the right one. Don’t engage. When night falls, I’ll hit the warehouse with you.” Was this wise? They were young and likely inexperienced in a true fight. Lavellan wasn’t sure what kind of things they would face.

But if it was something as covert as this, it was likely only a small operation. No matter how abandoned, the old Halamshiral docks were small, and large ships or frequent activity would be conspicuous. 

Besides, this was their home. If they wanted to fight to protect it, then Lavellan couldn’t take that from them.

“Does that sound agreeable to you?” he asked them.

“Will we need weapons?” asked Cap.

“Do you have them?” asked Lavellan. “I understand they don’t let you carry blades longer than your palm.”

“We have caches throughout the city,” said Cap.

“Okay, good. Nothing showy or heavy. Just enough to keep you alive if it comes down to it. Same goes for clothing.” He smiled. “We’ll meet at the alley where you jumped me. When the moon is midway to its zenith. Sound good?”

The four of them shared a resolute look. Then nodded at Lavellan.

 _Now then, Halamshiral_ , he thought. _What has stirred the dust of your ancient bones?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We take a little detour before the Winter Palace because Halamshiral is mostly comprised of the slums and we only see the pretty gilded walls in Inquisition. Let's go beyond those walls, shall we? Also, LMAO at Solas and Lavellan attempting damage control. 
> 
> Vivienne: try the baths darling  
> Lavellan: *windows xp error sound*  
> Cole: OvO
> 
> ALSO, WISTERICC [MADE A DOODLE COMIC](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/630971136720748544/son-acquired-by-wistericc), BLESS YOU. 
> 
> Honestly, some of you say some real funny shit. I have given you nothing but pain yet you reward me with mirth. How blessed.
> 
> Or maybe this is your coping mechanism. See, that also makes sense. If you laugh, it doesn't hurt, right?
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Isha'belsal'in:** The Man of Many Faces[⇧]


	40. Birth of a nation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-care checkpoint! Reminder to walk, stretch, drink water, eat, or sleep if you're able :)

_by virtue of shared blood—_

* * *

It was late by the time he'd returned to the Lorraine Estate and snuck back to his room. He was but a few steps away from his door when—

“—gone. My agents haven’t seen—”

Josephine, Leliana, and Solas turned the corner of the hallway and clapped their eyes on Lavellan who froze, standing in his piss-soaked cloak.

The long silence stretched.

Lavellan took a step back—

“Inquisitor!” Josephine scolded and marched up to him. Ah shit. “We were worried _sick_. You suddenly disappear with this—” she snapped the small note he'd left at his face— “with no other information?”

“I said I would be back?” he asked, voice small as he shrunk away from her. Fear her wrath. It was the nice ones you had to watch out for.

“That was it! It said nothing else!” He had a feeling she'd be shrieking if it wouldn’t wake the rest of the estate. “Where have you been?”

“Uh, Halamshiral?”

“You went to the slums,” said Solas. It wasn’t a question.

Lavellan pursed his lips.

Josephine squinted at him. “Is that…?” She yanked his hood back before he could stop her, brushed her fingers over his cheek, and he flinched when she pressed. “You got into a _fight_?” she asked, pitch going high. Josephine made a face and moved back. “And you smell like…”

“Piss, yes, I know,” he sighed. “I got jumped in an alley.”

Josephine rubbed her face and massaged her temples, then pointed at his room like an angered mother. “Go to your room and get yourself washed!” She held a hand out. “Give me your cloak.”

Lavellan did so. Behind her, Leliana made no effort to conceal her amused smile while Solas’ frown was practically engraved into his face.

“I am going to wash this,” said Josephine. “Or burn it. Never again, understand?”

And Lavellan nodded like the liar he was and Solas stared at him with a look that said, “Your lies far outnumber my sins.” Or something like that. It sure looked like that.

She sighed. “I managed to find an excuse for your absence during dinner but I cannot make the same excuse twice, Inquisitor. Please. No more surprise, spontaneous decisions. Or at least inform us of them.”

“It would hardly be a surprise if he were to tell people, Josie,” said Leliana and Josephine groaned.

“Please do not encourage him.” She shook her head. “Just… I am glad you are unharmed, Inquisitor. Now please, wash the stench of urine off yourself. Have a good night. Please make sure you are at the breakfast tomorrow.”

Josephine turned and walked back and Leliana followed. Solas remained. He nodded at Solas and moved to walk past him, get it done as soon as he could.

For a moment, Lavellan thought Solas would let him through without a word, but Solas stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. Before Lavellan could ask, Solas placed a hand on his cheek. He almost flinched from the comforting warmth. Solas’ hand glowed green and the soreness on Lavellan’s cheek faded.

“Thanks,” he mumbled once Solas finished and this time, Solas didn’t stop him as he moved to his room.

“What else happened?” asked Solas.

Lavellan opened his door. “Nothing that would interest you,” he said.

“You lie, da’len,” he said, eyes narrowing, and Lavellan bristled at the address but he managed to hide it. Far too used to lethallin or vun’lin.

“Good night. I’m going to wash off the smell of piss and despair.” He closed the door behind him and didn’t bother to catch Solas’ reaction. He also bathed as fast as he was able.

Lingering in the bath too long would bring about unwanted thoughts.

* * *

As promised, he was a good boy. He did his Inquisitorial duties in the morning, shared his final dinner with Lady Lorraine, and when the moon was almost mid-way to the sky, he excused himself and lied about needing plenty of rest for tomorrow night’s ball.

Solas’ gaze followed him the whole way out the dining room.

Lavellan hurriedly slapped his armour on, carried his weapons and a few of his elixirs and a vial of the alchemical formula from the reserve for tomorrow. He was sure he could afford to take a few tonight. Lavellan also left another note on his nightstand. 

> _Sorry Jo,_
> 
> _Don’t fret. I’ll be back soon. I’m needed somewhere._

Okay, so that wasn’t very informational.

He put another cloak on and left through the window. Vergala flew and patrolled the skies. Lavellan was almost out of the estate’s gates when he felt a presence behind him. He stopped.

“Go back to bed, Solas,” was his greeting. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“And where are you going?” 

Lavellan turned. Solas was frowning, already geared lightly. 

“Oh no you don’t,” said Lavellan. “Go back. You’re not coming with me.”

“I do not seem to recall asking for your permission.”

They stared one another down in the moonlight. Again in the moonlight. Always in the bloody damn moonlight. 

“Go back,” Lavellan said again.

“No.”

“Your Inquisitor orders you to go back.”

Solas chuckled dryly. “Ah, and now you wish for me to call you Inquisitor. How conditional.”

“You don’t even care!” Lavellan snapped.

“Evidently I do, though you certainly insist on being difficult most days.”

“Not me,” he said and swallowed back a sigh. Or a groan. Both at once. “Them.”

“Do you think me such a callous man?” asked Solas. “Do you think my acceptance of my inability to help the elves as I am now equates to uncaringness? And what of you? Is this how you plan to help the elves of Halamshiral? By disappearing every night to go fight in the dank alleys of the slums?”

Lavellan’s fists clenched at his sides. “You know nothing.”

“You will not let me!” His eyes sparked, more slate than grey as it always was in the night. Lavellan pursed his lips. “What am I to make of your current actions? So reckless in your ideals that you neglect to inform those around you of your activities? Worrying them and abandoning your duties as Inquisitor to play vigilante?”

“I am not abandoning my duties as Inquisitor,” said Lavellan, insulted. 

“You will have to forgive me if I do not believe it. Your actions speak otherwise.”

“So I should just ignore situations where I’m needed, right?”

“No, but they could certainly be approached with more caution. More consideration―”

“It’s time-sensitive, you ass!” he erupted. Gods, he was so― Solas and his propensity to grab Lavellan’s irritation by the ear and harass it until it revealed itself was unwelcome right now. “I only just found out yesterday and I think it’s slave trafficking! There, are you happy?"

“It was a simple matter of telling me,” he said, scowling. “You do not have to fuss like a child. Do you even have a plan?”

“Of course I have a plan.”

“Which does not involve you charging headlong into things, slicing with your daggers and calling it a day.”

“It’s nice to know you've placed great faith in me.”

“And I see you have a similar amount in me,” Solas returned. “Did you believe I would scoff had you told me? My earlier question was not rhetorical. Do you truly think I do not care?”

“Fine, I misspoke,” he muttered. They had _no time_ for this! “I thought you’d see there’s nothing to be done and leave it at that.”

Solas pressed his lips. “And I thought perhaps you had a higher opinion of me than that. You are being both unreasonable and foolish.” He tilted his head. “And might I add, a terrible friend.”

Lavellan opened his mouth in affront, ready for a scathing remark, but he stilled his tongue. He closed his mouth and frowned at Solas.

_“We agreed to wait,” Cassandra growled. Lavellan flicked his gaze up at her._

_“Had we waited, our scouts would be dead,” he said and returned to studying the map._

_“You should have discussed—”_

_“What good will that do?” he cut off irritably._

_“At least let us know! Now we have given ourselves away and Solas’ agents will ruin the plans we have painstakingly created for half the year.”_

_Lavellan didn’t answer. Was barely listening._

_Cassandra slammed her gauntleted hand over the map and obstructed his view, forced him to look back up at her. The items on the table shuddered from the impact._

_“You are not listening,” she seethed._

_“I made the right choice,” he said. “We haven’t completely given ourselves away. The plan can be salvaged—”_

_“That is_ not _the point!” Cassandra snapped. She sighed and threw her hands up, paced. “You cannot keep doing this, Mahanon. We beg you, listen to us. You do not have to fight alone. We are in this fight together, so act as such. That is our one advantage over Solas’ disconnected unit.”_

_“Disconnected but still formidable. But yes, do go on about the power of our sparkling connection and friendship. It will surely defeat a god,” he said._

_A flicker of hurt, replaced by frosty steel. “You,” she said lowly, “are being a terrible leader. More than that, you are being a terrible friend. You forget that cooperation is how the Inquisition had defeated Corypheus.” Cassandra rolled the map on the table and ignored his protests. “Perhaps you should sit out for a while.”_

_“You’re sidelining me?” he asked, pitch raising in incredulity. “You can’t do that!”_

_“Can’t I?” she challenged. “A horrid feeling, is it not? Being kept in the dark? Take some time to reflect, Mahanon. Just because we are fighting a terrible opponent does not mean you must become so terrible yourself.”_

_She walked out and slammed the door. He gritted his teeth, roared and kicked the chair._

Cassandra had been a true friend. She'd taken none of his bullshit and had knocked some semblance of sense into him.

Lavellan looked away, shoulders slumping. He was doing it again.

“Ir abelas, lethallin,” Lavellan said, passing a hand over his face. “I am being unfair.”

“Yes,” Solas grunted.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright. Come on, then. I’ll… I’ll explain on the way.”

At this time of the night, nobody would be lingering around the High Quarter so Lavellan walked straight past the guards who recognised him and let them pass without further trouble. He briefed Solas about the situation on the way.

Lavellan arrived at the alley where the four were already waiting for him.

Scruffy frowned. “You’re late,” he said.

“I got held back,” said Lavellan and they finally noticed Solas.

“What the hell is this?” hissed Scruffy. “I thought―”

“He’s with me,” said Lavellan. “He’s a mage. He might be able to help.”

They eyed him warily.

“He’s not Dalish,” said Cap.

“No,” replied Solas curtly.

“Where’s his staff?” asked Scruffy, squinting.

“We do not always need them,” said Solas.

“It’s in his coat. It shrinks,” said Lavellan and ruined Solas’ attempts to be mysterious and evasive. Solas appreciated this wholly if the cold side-eye was anything to go by. “Did you find the warehouse?” 

Knife nodded. Lavellan already knew their names but they'd insisted that he keep calling them by the nicknames he'd given them. 

“And?”

“Cap got in through an upper window,” said Knife. “They’ve got the eight girls tied up. Few guards outside, more inside.”

“How many do you think?” he asked Cap.

“No more than fifteen inside,” they said. “Not sure about outside.”

Lavellan looked at Tackle and his gaze softened. “Are you alright? Did you see your sister?”

His expression hardened. “No. Only Cap could get in. But that’s for the best. I’d just get angry and I would’ve blown it.”

“That’s a good call. Well done. Alright, how can we get in again?”

“I snuck about earlier and opened one of the larger windows,” said Cap. “We can go in through that.”

“Let’s not waste time then.”

They moved. Urgency lent them speed and Lavellan kept an eye on Vergala, waited for any signals of danger, but so far none came. They hitched a ride on a wagon manned by a contact from the thieves’ guild but they alighted a few blocks away from the docks and navigated the narrow back alleys with Cap and Knife in the lead.

Solas’ stare burned at the back of his neck. Lavellan shoulders tensed the more time passed.

“Do you mind?” Lavellan hissed at him, voice low enough that the others couldn’t hear ahead of them.

“What?” he bit out.

“I can feel your disapproving stare burning the back of my head.”

“It was not disapproval.”

“Either enlighten me or cut it out.”

“You need to calm yourself,” said Solas. “I have not seen you this rattled before. I fear you will make unwise decisions.”

“Apparently that’s all I’m capable of making lately,” Lavellan muttered.

“Why did you come here?” asked Solas. “To what end?”

“I didn’t know either. But I guess I wanted to see for myself. Hearing about it isn’t the same as being within it and even now, I don’t know the true extent of what everyone here is going through. I know I can never understand, so all I can do is offer what assistance I can.”

“To what,” Solas asked again, his tone now biting, “end?” 

“To make a difference in someone else’s life, no matter how small,” replied Lavellan, almost in disbelief. “I know we’re working big picture most times, Solas, but not everything we do has to be in service of a great mass of people even though that’s also important. Sometimes the only difference you can make is small, but to the one or two people you've helped, it could mean the world to them.”

Solas opened his mouth, cut off by Vergala cawing twice.

“Stop,” Lavellan whispered and they halted, lingering in the alley. Just in time. A guard walked past the alley and Lavellan squinted at the armour beneath their cloak. He shot Solas a look.

“Venatori,” he mouthed and Solas nodded, his lips pressing into a grim line

Well this just got more dangerous.

Once the guard passed, they continued and soon arrived at the warehouse. Cap scaled the wall to the window and threw down a rope that had been fashioned into a crude ladder. Lavellan kept an eye out for any more Venatori. There was a ship docked at the port, almost hidden in the darkness of the night, and his stomach clenched. They were going to leave tonight. They had to hurry.

He climbed the rope last and entered the large, open window. They found themselves on an upper ledge and easily pulled themselves up to the thick rafters crossing the ceiling. This way, they had an entire view of the warehouse, foregoing any confusing walls and hallways.

And there, in the largest room, were the eight girls chained to the wall with sacks over their heads. None of them were moving. He glanced at Solas who cast a muffling spell around them. It would make it harder for the Venatori to hear them but they still couldn’t make too loud of a fuss.

“Sleeping spell?” Lavellan asked.

Solas nodded. “I am unsure as to what manner. It could be imposed with a set duration or it operates locally yet indefinitely, which would require the caster to remain within a restrained distance.”

“Cap, were they asleep when you scouted earlier?”

“Yeah.”

“Solas, if indefinitely applied, what happens to their bodies?”

“Temporarily placed in a stasis,” he said. “Their body would require no food and no water to survive.”

The realisation occurred to them at the same time.

“No food and no water mean less resources used,” said Lavellan. 

“No complaints of hunger or thirst,” agreed Solas. 

“So then…” His eyes scoured the area. Venatori guards were scattered about. Three guarded the entrances and the rest minded their own business. Only one guard with the prisoners.

“What is the furthest the caster can go from the target?” asked Lavellan.

“This warehouse is not large. It could easily be any one of the guards.”

The Venatori mages had different uniforms usually, but everyone here wore the same, not even a staff to give anybody away.

Damn it.

“There’s the matter of getting the girls out of here,” said Knife. “If they’re asleep, how can we get them out quietly? There’s not enough of us to carry them. Also, breaking those chains won’t be quiet. We don’t know where the keys are either.”

Lavellan’s gaze scoured the warehouse. He needed a plan that wouldn’t get these four killed.

“What should we do, hahren?” asked Knife.

“We should just charge in,” hissed Scruffy.

“Absolutely not,” Lavellan said. “These guards belong to a Tevinter supremacist group called the Venatori. The moment they realise they’re in trouble, they’ll kill the girls and run out of here.”

That quelled any more foolish ideas of attacking them head-on.

Unless.

Lavellan looked at Solas who surveyed the warehouse below with a slight frown, gaze darting from guard to guard, perhaps attempting to locate the caster for the sleeping spell.

“Can you block the room the girls are in using a barrier?” asked Lavellan. 

He paused, considering Lavellan. “Yes,” he said, “but I find myself worrying more about what you are planning.”

“Nothing that’ll get me in trouble with Josie.” 

One guard in the room with the girls. If they could be incapacitated, Merry Band of Four could sneak in and break the chains. If Solas erected barriers in specific hallways, it would block the rest of the Venatori from coming to kill them, and buy the others enough time to get the girls out through the back door.

“Lethallin, you were in trouble the moment you left that dismal note.”

“You wound me, Solas.” 

Lavellan could also funnel the Venatori to him. Make a loud enough commotion and noise that would drown out the others’ attempts to free the prisoners.

He eyed Solas. How strong had he gotten?

“Know any hexes?” he asked.

Solas paused, likely mulling over the repercussions of admitting he was practicing the branch of entropy.

“I may know of a few,” he finally said.

Lavellan counted the guards. Cap’s report was correct. “On fifteen at once?”

Solas stared at him. “So you have faith in my aptitude but not in my person?”

“I never said that,” he said. “Just because some of our views clash doesn’t mean I have no faith in you. Why do you always have to take such extreme stances?”

“Just because it is diametric to yours does not mean it is extreme. I also do not understand why you go through such great pains to move me from my supposed extreme stance when you hypocritically remain steadfast in yours.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in disbelief. “Would you rather I give up on you?”

Solas scowled. “I am not another of your causes. You have no need to fight for me.”

 _Yes I do,_ were the words that built on his tongue but Lavellan swallowed it back.

“Do not reduce me to that,” said Solas, eyes and voice steely. “I am capable of making my own choices and living with the consequences.”

Lavellan’s stomach wrung and his chest tightened and he bit the inside of his cheeks.

“I’m sure you can,” Lavellan said instead though it came out bitter, “and I never insinuated otherwise. For someone claiming I have no faith in him, you seem to have little for me in return.”

“Perhaps I have put too much in you instead,” he said. “Peril already falls upon your doorstep every hour. You do not have to go and actively seek it when it _doesn’t_. Do you fancy yourself an ancient elf? You are not immortal. And neither are these four you have dragged along with you.”

“You certainly have a hell of a way of saying you’re worried. Did we have to go through all that hissing and spitting at each other?”

“I suppose it makes no difference since you will not listen either way.”

“Given up on me already?” Lavellan muttered.

“Is there any use trying to shift you from whatever course you’ve set your eye on?”

“Yes, there’s a use,” he snarled. “I know I don’t always choose the right course. I know I can be terrible. I’m trusting you to knock some sense into me when I do that, not shrug your shoulders and walk off!”

Solas paused. Silent save for the shuffling of the Venatori below them.

“You trust me?” Solas asked, voice soft.

Lavellan rubbed his face. “Dread Wolf’s great heaving backside, _yes_ , Solas.” Solas’ face pulled mildly at the curse. “If you’re going to tell me it’s misplaced, save it.”

“Um,” said Knife, “hahrens, the, uh, plan?”

Solas and Lavellan glanced at the four of them and Lavellan almost threw himself off the rafters, had momentarily forgotten they had an audience.

“Yes, the plan,” said Lavellan. “I was going to have Solas stay on the rafters and block the way to the room the girls are in so you four can release the girls and carry them out through that back door. Someone needs to incapacitate the one guard with the girls. I was going to barrel through the front door and make some noise. Funnel the Venatori towards me to give you as much time as possible, while Solas helps redirect any Venatori headed your way towards me.”

“You’re going to fight them yourself?” asked Scruffy. “ _By_ yourself? I thought you said we shouldn’t fight them.”

“I won’t be by myself.” He eyed Solas. “Which is why I’m asking if you can hex multiple people at once. And if you can simultaneously support me. Barriers, enhancements, supporting attacks, whichever. If one of the guards end up being the mage, there’s a chance I eliminate them and the girls can wake up.”

Solas’ brows raised. “Do you plan to work me to the bone tonight?”

“To the marrows,” Lavellan returned and they shared a look. “I’m going to have to ask for everything you can give.”

Solas looked away. “You are very demanding.”

“If it comforts you, I’ll be working very hard too,” he said dryly. “So can you?”

“You wish for the full extent of my power?” asked Solas.

“Everything you can manage.”

He glanced at Lavellan, eyes flashing. “Can you handle it?”

“I can.”

“There’re still fifteen of them and one of you,” said Tackle.

Lavellan’s mind cut back to that ruined battlefield, slicing and moving and tearing and leaving a sea of corpses in his wake.

“One of me is more than enough,” said Lavellan. Fifteen was nothing.

“Careful,” said Solas. “I will not enjoy watching you die because of your overblown head.”

“Keep me alive then.” He rolled his shoulders. “Alright, everyone got that?”

They murmured their assent.

“Ea tel’felasil[1],” said Solas as Lavellan turned to leave.

“Garahnen[2], Solas,” Lavellan said and slipped out the window. He called for Vergala in his head and she arrived with a silent beating of dark wings. She perched on his offered arm. “Get Leliana and tell her I need reinforcements to help stop a potential slave trafficking operation. Bring covert forces. Did you get that?”

“Slave trafficking. Help Lavellan. Bring covert forces,” she repeated, almost the same pitch as his voice.

“Good girl. Fly fast!” he urged and lifted his arm to give her a boost.

Lavellan descended and unsheathed his daggers, took off his cloak and tied his hair. He encountered a Venatori guard outside and made quick work of them before he kicked open the front doors and let it slam shut, the sound echoing in the mostly empty warehouse.

“Venatori,” he bellowed in greeting and flashed his daggers with a wicked grin. “Good evening. Am I intruding on something?”

“It’s the Inquisitor!”

“For the Elder One!”

Lavellan smashed the flask of fire over himself. Solas’ barrier coated him, but it felt… purer. More concentrated and charged.

He dodged the slashes without trouble and an arrow sailed wide over him. None of their hits could land. Ah, perfect. Solas’ hex was working too. Lavellan eliminated them quick.

Five Venatori came. Two archers, two sword wielders—

A fire rune flashed where he was standing.

And one mage.

A harmless force shoved Lavellan out of the way from the sudden stream of fire and another solid force caught and righted him. The air tingled with the familiar sensation of the Veil being pulled and the Anchor flared briefly. Responding to Solas’ magic, perhaps? Lavellan shot the rafters a glance but it was too dark to make out anything.

He licked his lips and tasted lightning from the ambient magic.

The Venatori mage fell in a burst of searing fire.

Lavellan slipped back into fighting and pierced into the slots of their armour, all his movements fluid, efficient, lethal. Strikes meant for him glanced off the barrier or missed.

He leapt back from a slash. His muscles responded easily and his hits were harder, faster. He tired slower.

More Venatori streamed in. He stopped counting and focused on the fight.

His blood sang warm. Lightning in his veins, on his lips, coasting along his spine, hearkening back to the sensation he'd had during his hunts with Fen’Harel. His attacks turned wild and playful.

A slash. Lavellan evaded. The strike got lucky and nicked his arm and he appreciated that about as much as Solas did, if the thickening of the ambient magic around him was anything to go by. Rather than oppress, it liberated. Ramped his awareness up and up and up until every sense he had alerted and the lightning coated the walls of his lungs. A small twitch of his legs sent him bounding and tearing through the Venatori. His steps were lighter. As if Solas had turned him into a hurricane.

Lavellan vaulted over the shoulders of a Venatori and launched himself at a nearby archer.

They fumbled with nocking the arrow.

He slit their throat.

Solas’ magic intensified further and his nerves lit in thrill, energy rippling through him. As if he'd consumed ten cups of Antivan coffee in succession.

Well, he did ask for everything.

This wasn’t everything.

Something pressed beneath his skin, answering the call of Solas’ magic.

And he had enough lucidity in him to recognise that he was getting carried away. Killing was not a game. Lives were not to be toyed with, enemy or otherwise. Quick and merciful, it should be.

“Vir Tanadhal, first code,” he muttered to himself as he ducked a swing. “Strike true and never waver.” He plunged his daggers into their neck, swivelled on his heel and slashed his daggers across the throat of another who was too close. “Never let prey suffer.”

Hilarious. He was invoking Andruil while wrapped in Fen’Harel’s magic.

No, not wrapped.

Saturated. It was dripping off him, a thick trickle of lightning, a procession of fire in his blood. Lavellan breathed it. He muttered the first code of the Vir Tanadhal like a mantra, if only to stop himself from being swept away by Solas. Focus. Get it done quick.

Five Venatori left. They faltered at the sight of their fallen comrades and Lavellan standing over them.

“Here, I’ll make it easy,” said Lavellan. Hopefully Cap and the rest had gotten the girls out alright. No shouts of alarm from them just yet. “You yield and I kill you quick. Don’t and we fight and it’ll be much more tedious for all of us, I’m sure.”

They stared at one another before one jerked his head back and two ran off.

“Hey!” Lavellan called and rushed forward but the three blocked his path. They were headed for the girls. Lavellan cut down the three in his way and chased after the two. Damn it, he should have brought his bow. “Solas!”

A wall of fire cut the Venatori off which left them no choice but to attack Lavellan.

Did not get very far.

He sheathed his daggers and stalked ahead. Done. Now if Solas could please tone down the ambient magic?

He entered the room where the girls were. Two were still chained while four dead Venatori littered the room. Cap looked up from unchaining one girl and nodded at the other. Both were awake, though groggy and disorientated.

Lavellan knelt beside the last girl and forewent any attempts to smile gently, keeping in mind the various unnerved comments his companions had made whenever he'd smile while covered in blood after the fury of a fight.

“Hello,” he murmured. “My name is Mahanon. I’m here to free you. Do you know your name?”

She blinked at him, eyes foggy, licking her dry and chapped lips. "Arana.”

The butcher’s daughter. “Alright Arana. We’re getting you out of here.”

“You’re… Dalish.”

“Yes.” He caught the keys Cap tossed him and unlocked her shackles, frowning at the bruised and raw skin around her ankles and wrists. “What do you remember?”

“I… I’m not sure. I was walking home but then…” She scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head. “My head hurts.”

“Can you stand?”

“I’m— not sure.”

“Okay,” he said, “Hold on.” He slipped his arms beneath her knees and under her back and lifted her, held her against him. Cap did the same, strong despite their small frame. Lavellan nodded at the dead Venatori. “They give you trouble?” he asked them.

“They tried,” they said. “Your friend helped. The others are already outside. More friends of yours have arrived too.”

“Oh good.” Also, oh bad. He wasn’t certain what kind of lecture Leliana would give him, if she’d give one at all. Hopefully she didn’t tell Josephine.

Evidently, hope was for idiots. He and Josephine locked eyes the moment he stepped foot outside while Leliana was conversing with the scouts and attending to the girls.

“Well, shit.”

Cap frowned at him. “Your friends seem very official.”

“Long story.”

He placed Arana with the other girls. Solas exited the warehouse through the window and took his place beside Lavellan, appraising him with an indiscernible glint in his eyes.

“Thanks,” mumbled Lavellan. “But could you, uh, tone it down?”

“You asked for everything.”

“That wasn’t everything.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

“You still held back.”

“Lethallin, if I had given you any more, you would have leapt through the roof.”

Lavellan laughed weakly, the magic around him dwindling like layers of cloth being carefully peeled away until he was made aware of his fatigue and the sting of minor injuries.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Lavellan, wincing at the various aches and throbs.

“Seeing as your opponents were on the ground? Yes, it would have been.” He gave Lavellan a healing potion. Lavellan drank and let Solas pat him down for any injuries and grunted when he pressed against sore areas. Solas had enough mana to spare to heal him.

Lavellan bit at the rim of the potion bottle as he watched the green light of Solas’ magic, teeth scraping against glass. He stared at Solas’ focused look and frowned.

“I’m sorry,” said Lavellan. Solas glanced at him. “For the things I said earlier. They were uncalled for. I don’t think you’re a callous man. If anything, perhaps you care too much.”

He said nothing, only refocused on healing him.

“And,” continued Lavellan. “I’m not fighting for you because you’re a cause. I’m fighting for you because you’re a friend. I owe it to you to try.”

“Why?” Solas asked softly.

“Because you’d do the same.” He looked away. “And I already gave up once.”

Solas finished healing him and he took a step back. The silence between them was a presence more than an absence.

They couldn’t continue their conversation — not that Lavellan had anything else to say — because Josephine marched towards them with murder in her eyes. Leliana followed close behind at a more serene pace, arms behind her back as though this were a stroll through the gardens.

“What were you thinking?” Josephine demanded, dark eyes like coal about to spark. She closed her eyes and took a few steadying breaths, and he recognised it as the calming method she had taught him in his past life. When her eyes opened, they were less murderous, though still livid. “Inquisitor, please,” she implored, “take more care. I understand your desire to help and I will not fault you for it, but please, I _beg_ you. Exercise more care with yourself. And tell us! You do not have to be alone with your campaigns.”

_“We beg you, listen to us. You do not have to fight alone. We are in this fight together, so act as such.”_

Cassandra’s words echoed and Lavellan looked down, chewed on his lip.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just— I panicked. I didn’t think and it was reckless of me. I’m sorry.”

Her livid gaze softened into something kinder. “They say you took on most of the guards yourself to protect the others but why do you never think of yourself for once? Why did you not wait for reinforcements?”

“I saw the ship docked. They were going to move out tonight,” he said. “Like I said, I panicked.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” cried Scruffy as he approached. He pointed at Lavellan. “ _He’s_ the Inquisitor?”

Lavellan scratched the back of his head. “Um, yeah. Surprise?”

He gave a disbelieving laugh, almost sounded as if it was close to crying. “And all this time, I thought you didn’t give a shit about us.”

He flinched minutely, couldn’t stop it in time, and his grip tightened around the empty potion bottle. Solas placed a gentle hand on Lavellan’s back and Leliana swept in, had likely picked up on it as well.

“I found this letter on the guard outside,” she said and handed it to Lavellan. He read it and his breath hitched. “They were for a man named Vicinius.”

“Meant to be shipments for Calpernia in a few months,” he murmured as he read the rest of the letter. “ _Our_ Calpernia?”

She nodded. “I do not think she ordered this operation, but this was undertaken to fulfill the request for slaves she'd made. She specifically requested for them to not be mistreated.” Hence the sleeping spell. “It may not have been your intention tonight, but we’ve thwarted the Venatori once more.”

Lavellan sighed and ran his hands through his hair, took out the tie and let his sweat cool.

“Alright, let’s make sure the girls are alright and then we’ll bring them home.”

Leliana nodded, opened her mouth to make another remark but―

“Well, what’s this?” asked a new voice and Lavellan glanced up. “You are a little too early for the party, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Briala walked into the alley, cutting an imposing shadow beneath the moonlight, eyes glimmering, face absent of her trademark mask. Behind her was a small retinue of masked elves. Lavellan placed the empty bottle on a nearby crate, met her halfway and bowed his head slightly.

“Ambassador Briala,” he greeted. “I hope there hasn’t been a conflict of interest?” Perhaps Briala really was onto the case.

“There would have been,” she said, “but I feared I was too late. Admittedly, your presence has offered some small relief.” She glanced behind him at the girls and her lips pressed into a thin line. “Are they unharmed?”

He nodded. “So far. They’re recovering from a sleeping spell.”

“Many things can still be done to hurt and degrade them, even under a sleeping spell,” she muttered and he gritted his teeth at the thought.

Lavellan looked back at the girls. The gravity of the situation had kicked into them, at the prospect of them nearly being sold into slavery, and they wept. Comforted by one another. Tackle held onto his sister, rocking her, shoulders heaving as he buried his weeping face into her hair. Lavellan’s nails dug into his palms from how hard he was clenching them.

“Did you make them pay?” asked Briala.

“I did,” he said.

“Good.” She turned to the elves behind her and nodded. They nodded back and left, disappeared into the shadows. She turned her attention back to the four elves Lavellan had helped. “Eshani,” she called and he started. That was Cap’s name. Cap looked up with a grim look and stood in front of Briala with their head bowed. “You were supposed to be preparing for tomorrow night,” she chided. 

“I couldn’t just leave it alone,” they argued.

Briala sighed. Tonight was a night of reprimands, it seemed. Still. Lavellan blinked at Cap. They were Briala’s agent?

“Don’t give me that look,” they huffed. “You didn’t tell us you were the Inquisitor.”

“Didn’t seem like important information at the time.”

“Well then, my reasons are the same.”

He shrugged. “Well, you _were_ quite observant. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I suppose the Inquisition will now be a name hailed in the slums of Halamshiral,” said Briala. “Quaint.”

Lavellan shook his head. “No. We can’t take credit for this.”

“What?” asked Solas.

“No, hear me out. We can’t let word get out to the Venatori that it was the Inquisition who stopped this. I can’t have them be wary. We need them complacent.” He crossed his arms. “You take credit for this.” Lavellan looked at Leliana in question and she nodded.

“He’s right,” she said. “We’re also currently investigating into Calpernia. If she remains unsuspecting of the Inquisition’s influence, we can continue on the trail we have.”

Briala hummed in consideration. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do. You want to hide your trail, is what you’re saying?” 

“Yes,” he said. “Also, the Inquisition was never meant to be dragged into this in the first place. This was my own short-sightedness.”

She laughed. “Inquisitor, whatever you do, it will relate back to the Inquisition. You are the Inquisition as far as anybody is concerned.” She eyed him, then turned. “Walk with me,” she said and went on ahead without waiting for his answer. Lavellan shot his advisors and Solas a glance and signalled for them to wait and tend to the others, then followed Briala. Vergala perched herself on his shoulders and he rubbed the underside of her beak.

“Well done,” he said. Briala turned in question but noticed he was talking to a bird instead.

“Should I ask?”

He grinned. “You can, if you want.”

“Full of mysteries, are you?”

“Am I?” he fired back and fell into step beside her as they walked the length of the old docks, water from the river littered with moonlit refractions. “I’m sure you know a few things about me already.”

“I know Gaspard has invited you to the ball as a sorry and childish attempt to stir up trouble.”

“He wants us to wear this ugly fucking uniform. Colours were disgusting. I had them changed. Should be interesting to see his reaction tomorrow night.”

Briala smiled. “Take your small victories,” she agreed. “That should irk him enough but he’ll have to be polite. It wouldn’t do him good to attack the guests he’s brought in. His strange sense of honour won’t let him either.” She snorted. “A man with a chevalier’s code who treats elves like dirt and potential invaders.”

“If he keeps going like that, I’m sure the potential invaders will become actual invaders.”

“Are you declaring war, Inquisitor?”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Creators, I’m still dealing with an ancient darkspawn magister who wants to slit your pretty Empress’ neck.” He shrugged. “Merely a thought.”

“A thought,” she echoed. “I see.”

“So, Ambassador? What do you know about me?”

“I know that you are a very peculiar man,” she said, appraising him. “And very different from the Dalish I’ve met.”

“I get that a lot.”

She stopped and so did he. “Why are you here tonight, Inquisitor? Shouldn’t you be up in the High Quarters luxuriating with the nobles?”

“I’d go mad,” he said. “And I know my advisors meant for it to be a kindness, but I didn’t appreciate them keeping me locked up there. No matter how hard anybody tries, ornate walls can never hide the slums. I’m here tonight because I wanted to see how my people are being treated and I’ve seen what I needed.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “ _Your_ people?”

He tilted his head. “My people,” he agreed.

“Is this an attempt to garner sympathy for your cause, Dalish? Declaring the city elves as yours? The very elves your people have renounced?”

His lips twitched. “You sound like my friend. Yes, I know some Dalish don’t consider the city elves as theirs, thought they've turned their backs on elven culture, but some disagree. I'm among them.”

“The Dalish I met were proud and arrogant,” she said. “I have helped them for so long believing them to be my people only to find out that they do not view me the same way. Flat-ear,” she said, smiled without mirth.

“On behalf of the Dalish,” he said, “I apologise. We’ve been so focused on surviving for so long that… Well, we can be a bit difficult.”

She raised a brow. “And you would claim to hold different views of the city elves?”

“Why don’t I show you instead?”

“Do elaborate.”

He looked out at the river, frowning. “I can give you the throne. Tomorrow night.”

She stared. Then laughed. “Inquisitor, I cannot sit on the throne. Orlais will be thrown into chaos if a _knife-ear_ sits upon it.”

“I’m giving you the throne. Not to sit on. I’m giving you whoever sits on it.” Lavellan gave her a grim and determined stare. “However the night ends, whether it’s Celene or Gaspard or an old dowager with a proclivity for taxidermy who sits on the throne, I’ll give you the leash or their ear. I can’t help the elves of Orlais, not on my own. But you? You care. I need someone who cares. For the Dalish and city elves alike. It’s a thankless job, but I know you’ve accepted that long ago.”

Briala scrutinised him, eyes glinting as she assessed the sincerity of his claims.

He shrugged. “Don’t trust the declarations I just said. It’s all empty for now. But tomorrow night, we’ll see which way the wind blows. The elves will win, no matter who takes the throne.”

It was silent between them. Briala looked out towards the river too, wind swaying the dark curls of her hair. She made a soft noise and let it fill the interim.

“Celene made grand promises too,” she said and her gaze hardened. “What do I have to remind me of it? The blackened ashes of Halamshiral’s slums. If you turn out to be exactly like Celene, Inquisitor…” She fixed him with a stare akin to the silent slice of an unseen dagger. “The morning after you save the world from this darkspawn magister, you will find yourself ruined.”

Lavellan considered the threat, then nodded.

“Good,” he said. If he did indeed turn out to be exactly like Celene, he’d turn his dagger on himself and bury it in his gut first. They walked back to the others. As they did, Lavellan’s mind turned and weighed his options. The others glanced up upon their return and Briala slipped away with a soft farewell leaden with promise and warning.

Lavellan stared up at the stars in silence. His advisors and Solas watched him with an unsaid question and he hummed.

“I think,” he said, eyes glimmering, “that I’m letting Celene die tomorrow night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Lavellan: *arguing quietly with a giant cloud of suffocating UST and Angst around them*  
> Merry Band of Four: um... we are... kind of in the middle of something here...?  
> Also the Merry Band of Four: fuck we should've brought popcorn
> 
> They really do forget everyone else in the room when they get started huh?
> 
> Lavellan, baby, listen to Solas and Josie please. You're going to give the inner circle grey hairs, I swear to god. Good thing Solas doesn't have hair. (But if he did, they'd turn as white as Lavellan's lmao)
> 
> Solas: u reckless punk u think ur an ancient elf huNH???  
> Lavellan:  
> Lavellan: ya
> 
> (I am once again cringing at the earlier chapters of this fic and stopping myself from rewriting it a little. I will instead take this as a good sign that my writing has improved. Maybe. Hfhfhfh--)
> 
> OKAY WINTER PALACE OFFICIALLY STARTS NEXT WEEK YIPPEE.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ea tel'felasil:** Don't be an idiot[⇧]  
> [2] **Garahnen:** Everything[⇧]


	41. The empire to one's whims

_bold in the black and gold—_

* * *

“I’m giving the throne to Briala.”

His three advisors digested the information, faces pulled tight from consideration or from the bright sunlight flooding the estate’s solarium.

“You’d still give Gaspard the throne for that to happen,” said Cullen, frowning. “Even if you do succeed with giving the ambassador blackmail, how long will that last? I’ve no wish to see him declare war on Ferelden once this is over.”

“It does seem a little counterintuitive,” said Josephine. “You could attain the same results with reuniting Empress Celene with Ambassador Briala.” Lavellan scrunched his face. “Better yet, we could arrange a public truce.”

Leliana said nothing, only examined the variety of exotic plants arrayed along the large windows.

“What we need is for Orlais to be stable,” he said. “That doesn’t require Celene being alive.”

“A public truce will work,” Leliana eventually said, brushing her fingers against the curling vine of an overhead potted plant. “Momentarily, at least.” She turned and faced him. “But you are thinking long-term, yes? You have further plans after the masquerade and, optimistically, after Corypheus.” It was not a question

Josephine and Cullen stared at him. The clouds obscured the sun, dousing them with blessed shade. Lavellan leaned back in his seat and didn’t answer.

Leliana smiled. “I had not taken you for a schemer.”

“Yes you have,” said Lavellan.

“In battle, yes. In diplomatic affairs, yes. But something of this political magnitude? I must admit, I am surprised.”

“I will not drag the Inquisition with me,” said Lavellan. “Whatever plans I have after Corypheus—” and after Solas, if there _was_ an after— “I won’t involve the Inquisition as an organisation. Although, for now, I’m using our influence to give me this early foundation.”

“What _are_ you planning after?” asked Josephine.

Lavellan looked down at his lap. “I want to return the Dales and Arlathan back to the elves.”

More silence.

“That is a big promise,” said Josephine softly.

“I know.”

The clouds passed and the sunlight returned.

“Are you certain?” asked Leliana. “About letting Empress Celene die?”

“I am,” he said, voice hard.

Josephine clasped her hands over the table. “Well, our objective is to stabilise Orlais. If that is the course you wish to take…”

“Does it discomfort you?” he asked.

“Mildly,” she admitted. “But I trust your judgement.”

Lavellan bit back a grimace.

“We will have to take precautionary measures,” said Cullen and he rubbed the back of his neck. “To mitigate the chaos after the Empress’… assassination. Whenever it will happen. I’m still uncomfortable with the thought of Grand Duke Gaspard on the throne, but if you think the elven ambassador can hold onto the leash you give her…”

His brows raised at them. “You three really trust me that much?”

“Is that so surprising?” asked Cullen. “We swore to fight for you, Inquisitor.”

“I can lead you astray,” said Lavellan. “I don’t— I don’t want to be another Meredith.”

Cullen shook his head. “I am not the same man as I was then. I follow you, but not blindly.”

“Good. If I ever make choices that you think compromises your morals, oppose me.”

Cullen nodded, grim but firm.

“Shall we inform the inner circle?” asked Josephine.

“No,” said Lavellan. “The less who know, the better. It’s not that I don’t trust them, but it’s easy to slip. It’s safer this way. For them, too.” Although it was a little late for Solas, but he’d spent centuries in courts. It would be fine. He was unlikely to slip. Besides, Lavellan had already declared in the Emerald Graves that he was planning to put Briala on the throne, so it would be no large surprise for Solas.

“Well then, it is time to start preparing for the ball,” said Josephine. They concluded the meeting and stood. Josephine and Cullen left but Leliana stayed, watching Lavellan with a considering frown.

“Is everything alright?” he asked. “Do you disagree?” Though he vaguely recalled that it was Leliana who had suggested that they could let Celene die last time.

“No. In fact, I think it shrewd. I just… did not expect such ruthlessness from you.”

He paused.

She shook her head. “No, never mind. Come, let us prepare.”

Leliana ushered him out of the solarium and back into the estate, but the troubled look never left her face.

* * *

He looked out his bedroom window, the grounding stone in his hand warm from how long he'd held and gripped it. His stomach flipped. Whether from anticipation or the anxiety from the wait, he couldn’t be sure.

Lavellan turned towards the covered mannequin standing beside his wardrobe and approached. They'd been adamant about keeping the uniform a secret until the very end, and he finally understood why once he pulled the fabric away to reveal it.

“Holy shit,” he murmured and ran his fingers over the attire, traced the golden embroidery of ferns and curling vines on the front of the black military coat, a black braided design threaded along the coat’s golden trims. The uniform had stayed somewhat true to Gaspard’s original design but this was different. Better. _Theirs_. The sash was gone but they'd kept the belt, though the buckles were now in the shape of the Inquisition’s symbol.

He raised a brow at the one-shouldered cape, the fabric smooth and shimmering gold.

Such small changes that spoke volumes. _You cannot tame me._

“Madame Vivienne and Madame Sartre, you’ve outdone yourselves,” he said.

Lavellan dressed himself and marvelled at the freedom of movement it retained. Even as he picked up his daggers and ran through a few forms, he moved uninhibited. The old uniforms had been stiff, had restricted his movements and left him sufficiently frustrated for the entirety of the night, but this presented no such issues.

For the finishing touch…

He retrieved a small case on his bedside table and opened it, a little something he'd requested months prior to be made.

_“I saw a woman wearing this accessory on her ears,” said Lavellan. “During the ball. It was on the outer shell of it.”_

_Dorian hummed as he looked up from his book. “Oh, yes. Ear cuffs. Never really was one for them.”_

_“If I were to wear them, don’t you think my ears would look like knives?”_

_He paused, stared at Lavellan over the book._

_“Next time,” continued Lavellan, “I’ll wear it to court.”_

_The sentiment rang hollow since their confrontation with Solas would happen in three days, but he always did enjoy wry humour._

_Dorian closed the book, smiling faintly._

_“Well then! I wish to see it when you do.”_

_“It’s a promise.”_

_“You better uphold it.”_

The silver ear cuffs glinted as Lavellan picked them up to clip them on. It hugged the skin, secure but not biting, reaching to the tip but no further, and he smiled.

He was right. They looked like knives.

If they were to call him knife-ear behind his back, he may as well give them reason to.

Lavellan stood in front of the mirror, the golden fabric of the cape swishing as he moved. The uniform fit him well; balanced formal with militaristic, balanced embellished with simple, elegance with danger. The light caught on the silver ear cuffs.

He traced the fern embroidery on the front, the gold of it striking.

_“It would also match the colour of your eyes.”_

He pursed his lips and pointedly looked away. Stupid wolf.

Someone knocked on his door. “Inquisitor?” came Vivienne’s imperious voice. “May I come in?”

“It’s open,” he said.

Vivienne swept into the room, wearing the same uniform but absent of the cape, and the embroidery was limited to the cuff of the sleeves. Complex, golden lacework covered the surface of her black hennin.

She stopped once she saw him, an approving light sparking in her eyes.

“Darling, you look wonderful,” she greeted and walked up to him, resting her hands on his shoulders as they regarded his reflection.

“As do you,” he said and her lips quirked. She stepped away with a hand to her chin as she better appraised him, and her gaze softened as it fell on the silver ear cuffs.

Vivienne gently cupped the side of his head, thumb brushing over the accessory. “Well done,” she said. “They cannot hurt you this way.”

He smiled. “I want them unnerved.”

“And they will be. Now you must ensure you keep their attention despite it. A careful balance of enigma and fear.”

_“He laid such beautiful traps in the forest.”_

“Did you know,” said Lavellan out of the blue, “that there was once a hunter who would make traps that were said to be so beautiful that those who fell to it welcomed it, even at the price of death?”

Vivienne retracted her hand and tilted her head in curiosity. “Is this an elven tale?”

“In a way,” he said and fought to keep his voice neutral. “The god of tricks heard about this trap and sought the hunter, wondering what made them so compelling. The hunter challenged him to a hunt. The trickster god was to chase the hunter, and when he catches the hunter, he will know the answer.”

“When,” noted Vivienne.

“When,” he confirmed. “And so the chase began, lasting throughout the night until, inevitably, the god caught the hunter.”

“And what was the secret to his traps?”

“It was left open-ended.” He shrugged. “I say it was the illusion of victory which made the traps compelling.”

“And you will lay such a trap?” she asked and Lavellan smiled.

“Madame Vivienne, I am the trap.”

A delicate laugh escaped her. “You _are_ a terror, darling.”

What would the god of tricks think of him now?

Vivienne ran her hands through his washed hair and frowned. “What were you planning to do with it?”

“I was just going to leave it? Or tie it maybe.”

She made a displeased sound at the back of her throat. “I’m certain you know what you’re doing with your—” she vaguely gestured at it— “bird nest.” He laughed. “But surely you could do something better with it.”

“It’s too short to style into the only braid I know, but I suppose it’s gotten long enough that I can’t just leave it alone.”

The sound of chatter from downstairs. His companions must already be dressed.

“I think I may have a solution,” she said. “Wait here.”

She left and Lavellan grabbed a hair tie and wrapped it around his wrist, just in case, before he took his grounding stone and slipped it into an inner pocket. He rarely had need for it now but it offered comfort nonetheless.

Vivienne returned with a small vial and a comb.

“Is that Cullen’s?” asked Lavellan, eyeing the vial.

“Who else’s? He numbers among the few of you that bother to spend more than a sparing glance at their hair.” She patted the bed. “Sit.”

Lavellan obliged as she poured the vial’s contents onto her fingers before lathering it over the teeth of the comb and sweeping his hair back with it. Miraculously, his hair stayed. Somewhat. It wasn’t as stubborn as Ellana’s but it still had an inclination to disobey some days. Once finished, he glanced at his reflection.

He made a face. Too… neat.

“Patience,” she said. “I’m not finished.” Vivienne carded her hands through the locks and ruffled them, turned it unkempt, gave it a dash of disorder. “There,” she said, moved a few more strands. “Your wildness cannot be tamed. Shouldn’t be. Although it never hurts to look presentable and place effort into looking effortless.”

“Is that what you do?” he asked, grinning, better approved of the modification.

“Darling,” she cooed, “I always look effortless. I need not place effort into a natural talent.”

“Ah, of course. My sincerest apologies.”

“Hm. Forgiven.” She stood and ushered him out the door. “Come, let us show you off.”

He snorted. “They see me almost every day. There’s no need.”

They approached the staircase, his friends already gathered in the foyer below them, a sea of black and gold.

Vivienne clapped her hands. “Settle, rabble. Come see your Inquisitor.”

There rose a collection of cheers and a playful whistle from Bull as they descended the stairs. Lavellan looked for the source of the whistle on instinct, and his eyes accidentally locked onto Solas who was standing beside Bull. Lavellan quickly averted his gaze, heartbeat spiking.

Dorian met him at the bottom of the steps and bowed with great exaggeration. “Dear Maker, if this is you rewarding me for being a pious man, then I will continue to kiss your holy light.” He took Lavellan’s hand and kissed it. Lavellan rolled his eyes. “Oh demigod descended from above, how you grace our measly existence with your gleaming presence.”

“Shut up,” he laughed and pulled his hand back, smacked Dorian’s arm.

Dorian’s gaze fell on the silver ear cuffs.

Lavellan had worn it to court after all.

“Like it?” Lavellan asked. _Look, see? I finally managed to keep a promise._

Too bad it was to a dead man.

“Like it?” Dorian straightened and laughed nervously. “I’m a little uneasy all of a sudden. I feel as if I’ve walked into a trap.”

He patted Dorian’s arm, brushed aside the vertigo and aching in his chest. “Good.” Lavellan took stock of his companions to redirect his attention, steered clear of looking at Solas. “We look fantastic. And terrifying. This is great.” He couldn’t wait to see Gaspard’s face.

Sera fidgeted in her attire. “Not as itchy as I thought.”

Blackwall’s beard had been braided and threaded with gold, hair tied back, same as Varric. Josephine had pinned her hair up into an elaborate braided bun.

And he finally mustered enough courage to glance at Solas.

Solas was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes appraising Lavellan, made no effort to conceal it. The slow travel of his gaze traced a careful knife over Lavellan’s chest, stripped the layers of flesh and bone back as if it were delicate lacework, spun the trickling blood into a thread that he wrapped around Lavellan’s shuddering heart.

Lavellan tore his gaze away because that way lay danger. His mouth dried.

“Inquisitor, please,” begged Dorian. “Tell Solas that he may _not_ wear that dreadful helm to the party.” He pointed at the hat Solas was holding.

Lavellan shrugged, placed more effort into making it seem casual. “I bet the helm is a subtle dig at the Orlesian nobility. Let him.”

Dorian made a withering sound.

“On the subject of strange attire,” said Lavellan and held up the one-shouldered cape. “Is this really necessary?”

“It is the only part of your attire that has been treated with the alchemical reagent you use,” said Josephine with a playful smile. “It is also detachable.”

Lavellan stared at her. Then at the cape. Detachable? So… if he were to throw it at the face of an unfortunate Venatori or a particularly irritating noble and set it alight…? He smoothed the cape back over his shoulder and patted it.

“Oh, yes. Needed. Very much so,” he agreed. That was so much better than what he had planned which was to soak random things with the alchemical reagent and hurl one of his elixirs at it to set it on fire. That method was less stable. Higher likelihood of nothing happening or too much happening.

Josephine clapped. “Alright, we must be going. The window of fashionably late is very precise and very fickle.”

“Impossible to be fashionably late when we're the ones who start the party,” said Dorian.

Everybody filed out the door, chattering about the outfits or things to look forward to or matters of complaint. Cullen already looked as if he was battling with a huge headache. 

“We’re not at the palace yet, Commander,” teased Lavellan.

“And yet the headache has already arrived."

“Try to save some headache for the actual event.”

“I think I’m incapable of running out.”

“Good man.”

Their four coaches were arrayed outside, sleek and black, ornamented with golden accents ― matched their uniforms. Blackwall and Bull would ride on horseback as honour guards. Lavellan was to ride alone in the first carriage.

“Why must I ride alone again?” he grumbled.

“It would not hurt to be theatrical,” said Solas, suddenly beside him, and Lavellan almost leapt out of his skin. “So you and only you will be the first sight they see. And what a sublime sight that would be, too.”

Lavellan couldn’t quite suppress the warmth in his chest and the jump in his heart.

“Flatterer,” he said.

“It was not flattery. Merely an observation.”

Lavellan stole a glance at him. Or perhaps it was more than a glance. He couldn’t be sure of the duration. The uniform complemented the natural elegance of Solas’ fluid movements, shifted his disposition some, changed how he held himself. Nothing overt. Subtle, hidden, the flash of too sharp teeth in the sheep’s mouth. Made one wonder if it was a trick of the light.

It was not.

“Admiring, Inquisitor?” Solas asked after a while and Lavellan realised he’d been staring.

“Observing,” he returned.

Solas smiled, gaze on the coaches rather than Lavellan, still evading eye contact.

“Ah. And what have you observed?”

“That perhaps it is you I should be wary of tonight.”

His smile sharpened. “Why is that?”

Lavellan watched the others entering their carriages. “Because there’s something entirely delighted in your eyes and I suspect it has something to do with the hat,” he lied smoothly. “What obscure historical reference are you making now?”

“A challenge for you,” Solas said. “Find out.”

He laughed. “Of course. I’ll add it to my itinerary for tonight. It’s a little full but I’m sure I can sneak it in.”

“Excellent.” With that, he walked towards his carriage and Lavellan was left to enter his on his lonesome. He huffed once inside. 

“Aw, what’s wrong?” asked Bull outside his window, grinning at Lavellan. “Didn’t get a compliment from a certain bastard?”

“No,” said Lavellan. “I was thinking about the ball, actually.”

“Sure you were.”

“You don’t believe me? We’re kind of going into a ball where an assassination attempt is about to happen. On the empress, no less.”

Bull shrugged, mounting his horse. “Don’t worry. The moment he saw you, he stopped dead mid-sentence. Mid-sentence, Mercy. Couldn’t stop staring. Keep at it. You just stand there and let me coax the guy. Who knows? Tonight might end up being a good night.” He winked. But he had an eyepatch so… He could have just been blinking? No, the blink was too deliberate. Definitely winking. “You know how these things end.”

“With low sobriety and a headache.”

“I’d gear for a different kind of head aching.”

Lavellan snapped the curtains shut and ignored Bull’s bellowing laughter. The carriages soon moved and off they went towards the heart of this rotting empire. Too many rotting empires in his lifetime. This life and the past. Both pasts.

Creators, what a mess.

He was too old for this.

The Winter Palace held a surplus of unwanted and unpleasant memories. No Exalted Council this time, and hopefully no explosives planted by a foreign power, but the peace talks on their own had been an unlikeable affair.

They arrived far too soon.

“Ready, Inquisitor?” came Blackwall’s voice from outside along with the ambient chatter of the courtiers that had gathered in the Winter Palace’s front courtyard. Lavellan took a deep breath and donned his figurative mask. 

“Ready,” he said.

The door opened and Lavellan stepped out, greeted the palace’s front gates with an unmoved disposition despite the squeeze in his chest at the familiar yet simultaneously foreign sight. Grand Duke Gaspard was waiting beyond the gates. The Inquisition soldiers stood at silent attention, garbed in black. Once the full retinue of the inner circle was standing behind him, they entered the palace grounds with him at the helm.

They must have made quite the foreboding entourage. Their black attires stood in stark contrast to the sea of colours littering the party.

The whispers began.

The familiar front courtyard pulled memories from the dusty corners of his mind. He almost half-expected Varric to be waiting by the fountains with his disgruntled seneschal lecturing him, Cullen in a corner stroking his drooling Mabari, Dafty. 

_A dead Qunari by the wall._

Stop it. Focus.

Lavellan confronted Grand Duke Gaspard with an amiable smile. He had no time to be shaken. If the Orlesians caught even the slightest whiff of hesitance from him, he'd be in trouble.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” greeted Gaspard. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” He paused and appraised everyone’s attire, expression remaining neutral, though his eyes sharpened behind the mask. “You take pride in your colours,” he said.

“Of course,” said Lavellan, tone easy. “Our organisation has accomplished much to be proud of. Besides, if you wished to stir up controversy by having us as your guests, I supposed you could use a little helping hand.”

Gaspard’s expression tightened. No matter how much the mask hid, Lavellan knew to read from the eyes. The eyes never lied.

“It certainly has,” said Gaspard. “Recruiting the Grey Wardens, and both the Templars and rebel mages into your ranks while fostering peace between them? A clever move. What’s more, such a vocal support the Chantry now gives. Such a change of heart. Perhaps your reach truly stretches further than believed possible.”

Good try, bastard. Such implications wouldn’t fly over Lavellan’s head. Not on his watch.

“Though leaderless, the Chantry is still a powerful and decisive institution. Whatever action they take is beyond our influence, and such a change of heart is a rather strong testament to how far we’ve come to earn their trust.” _Elevate the Chantry, imply Gaspard had little faith in them, and put Lavellan in the good graces of the faithful._

“Truly impressive,” said Gaspard, shifting tactics. That way lay trouble and they both knew that his continued pursual of it would give Lavellan the shovel to bury him with. “Imagine what further glories the Inquisition could achieve with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais!”

“Which one is the rightful one again?” asked Lavellan with a perfected look of innocent curiosity. “I always forget.”

Gaspard chuckled but it was forced at the edges. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find him by the drinks. Probably near the brandy.” He bowed. “Enjoy the masquerade, Inquisition. Let us meet again once you are ready for your introduction to the court. In the meantime, if you will excuse me.” Gaspard retreated inside and Lavellan turned to the inner circle.

“Well done,” said Leliana, brows raised slightly.

“You look surprised, Sister Nightingale,” he teased. “No faith in my skills?”

“I had faith, Inquisitor,” she said. “And yet I still find myself pleasantly surprised.”

“I’m not entirely sure what just happened,” admitted Cullen.

“Hush,” soothed Leliana. “Just stand and look pretty.”

Cullen scowled at her.

Lavellan nodded at the others. “You know what to do.”

They went on ahead, Cole throwing Lavellan a considering look over his shoulder, before he fell into step beside Solas. Lavellan watched Solas walking away for far longer than was necessary.

He shook his head. “Alright, scatter. Gather what you can here. Commander, please ensure the safety of our _effects_.”

Now then. Lavellan regarded the front courtyard, met the looks of a few nobles whose support he had already gathered before the ball. This was the first battle. Enduring all those excruciating meetings was finally paying off.

“An elf savage?” he heard one man ask, scandalised.

“This must be Gaspard’s idea of a joke.”

It was, but Gaspard would soon realise that the Inquisition and its Inquisitor was anything but a joke. By the end of tonight, Lavellan would have him leashed and he would give the leash to Briala. So perhaps this _was_ a joke. Just at Gaspard’s expense.

By the end of tonight, Orlais would choke on Lavellan’s strings and they would thank him for it.

The allies they had made before the ball would turn the tide of the rumours to the Inquisition’s favour but Lavellan must continue to provide them with the ammunition to do so. His first conversation with Gaspard would have won the slight approval of those who considered him usurper more than rightful ruler, and so Lavellan would later need something to garner the approval of those who supported Gaspard. Excelling at the Game was his best chance of doing so.

He accompanied Josephine as she introduced him to a few nobles and he recalled names, recalled which masks signified which houses, left them charmed yet vaguely uneasy after every conversation. A skill he had learned in Tevinter.

Leliana was off somewhere gathering information. He sat and held conversations while eavesdropping on another.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” said Josephine once their conversation with a comte ended.

“Perish the thought,” he said. Yet he was. He kept his ear on the conversation between two nobles by the garden bed.

“Commander Cullen would bemoan losing a possible ally who would share his hatred of the Grand Game,” she said with a small laugh.

“I’m sure we can bond over other things,” said Lavellan with an entirely too pleased grin. “By the way, Gaspard’s losing traction with some of his supporters.”

She blinked. “What makes you say this?”

He tipped his head slightly towards the direction of the two nobles. “A breeze whispered by my ear.”

Josephine held a hand up to her chin in thought as she eyed him. “And to think that two nights ago you came home looking like a lost alley cat.”

His mouth fell open in affront.

“I must admit, I had entertained a few worst-case scenarios and readied contingency plans,” she said and he let out a startled laugh, “but you are being very behaved tonight.”

“Give me some time. I’ll misbehave soon.”

Josephine chuckled, shaking her head. “If you must, please ensure the misbehaviour makes the Orlesians intrigued over horrified.”

“Why not both?”

She sighed, but she was still smiling, and stood. “Come, let us go in. You still have the rest of the palace to greet and I dearly hope our dancing lessons are put to good use.”

He grinned. “Jo, you sat on the sidelines and cheered me on and laughed when I stepped on the instructor’s feet. I would hardly constitute them as your lessons.”

“Such insult, Inquisitor Lavellan,” she retorted though it was absent of heat. They stood and waited by the palace entrance for Leliana and Cullen while Josephine watched the skies. Clear skies tonight. The stars giggled as they sat in on tonight’s gala. Vergala should already be perched on rooftops and balconies, ready should Lavellan or the Inquisition soldiers require her help.

Cullen returned first.

“Solas has gone on ahead to ready the caches,” he said. “Sera’s contacting Red Jenny. The rest of the inner circle are at their stations.”

“Do you think Solas and Sera would have finished by now?”

“Likely. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

Leliana met up with them, terribly pleased with herself. “I believe we just earned the support of four houses.”

“Seven,” corrected Lavellan. “Brienne, Langer, and Marcelin from me and Jo. 

“And the moon has yet to rise past its mid-zenith.” She smiled. “My, my, we _are_ efficient. There are mixed rumours of you, Inquisitor.”

“Oh? Do tell me about them later. On a scale of Chantry sister caught wearing lacy smallclothes to participating in an orgy for a blood magic ritual, how sordid are these rumours?”

Cullen made a disagreeing noise and Josephine coughed behind her hand. Leliana’s smile widened.

“I will inform you over a bottle of Nevarran Red later. For now, shall we announce our presence to the rest of the palace?”

“Let’s,” he said. “The inner circle should be back in the vestibule for the formal introductions.” Lavellan paused. “I hope Sera hasn’t already stained her uniform.”

“Is it too late to change her name?” Josephine muttered.

“Her name is perfect,” said Lavellan.

Her face scrunched. They entered the palace vestibule, foreboding in their black and gold, and found the inner circle littered throughout large area. Grand Duke Gaspard was by the door, conversing with two people. 

The Inquisition gathered in an unoccupied corner. Sera’s uniform had, thankfully, remained pristine. He counted the people present and frowned.

“Where's Solas?” he asked.

Cole fidgeted in his uniform but said nothing and Lavellan squinted further. Was he in trouble? They'd assigned Solas to sort out the weapon caches because of his aptitude for being unassuming, but what if he was in danger? Assigning him to the caches was a new decision. Lavellan hadn’t done it in his past life so what if―

“I apologise for my tardiness,” came a voice behind him and Lavellan sagged in noticeable relief.

“Cutting it close, Chuckles,” said Varric. He'd shaved for tonight and Lavellan wasn’t sure how he felt about clean-shaven Varric. “Our dear Inquisitor’s worry was increasing exponentially every second.”

Lavellan huffed and crossed his arms. “I was only moderately worried,” he said in his defence and shot Solas a glance. “How’d it go?”

“Successfully,” he replied, an easy smile on his lips. Lavellan’s lips twitched at Solas’ hat and he turned away, unsure if he was suppressing a laugh or a remark.

“Sera?” Lavellan asked instead. “Made any new Friends?”

She scrunched her nose. “I did, but they’re all fluttery. Something about missing elves.”

So it had already begun.

“Anyone else have anything interesting to share?” He was too aware of Solas’ presence behind him.

“Got a lot of rumours about us,” said Bull. “The usual though. Apparently you eat babies and bed demons, but some say you’re actually a very nice, young man. Red is scary, Varric’s got fans.”

“I do?” asked Varric. “Because of Hightown? Or The Champion?”

“Uh, no. The other one. Something, something, shield?”

“Swords and Shields?” he squawked. “My romance serial? Seriously?” 

“Darling, Orlesians love mystery and romance,” said Vivienne. “It should come as no surprise.”

“No, but I’m going to have a few words with my publisher,” he muttered. “Doesn’t sell well my ass.”

Lavellan laughed and nodded towards the ballroom. “Come on, let’s go meet an empress.”

They must have made for such an intimidating sight. Sure, if they had gone with the red uniform, they would still attract attention, but they wouldn’t have carried such weight from the beginning. Wouldn’t have imparted this small touch of fear. Lavellan wasn’t here to play nice. Every word, every action, would be a hidden blade, a subtle string. He would not dance to the Game’s song, but the Game would dance to his.

In another world, in another life, this all felt so familiar…

A flash of violet eyes, a shower of raven feathers, the slow curl of lips dripping with poison.

Lavellan blinked and it was gone.

Gaspard’s conversational partners bowed out upon Lavellan's approach and Gaspard nodded at him.

“Inquisition,” he said. “Are you prepared to appear as the guests of a hateful usurper?”

“I’m sure we’ll finally bring a little excitement into this entire night.” 

Gaspard chuckled. “I share the sentiment. It is a relief to walk in among friends. They number few these days, torn by divided loyalties.”

Lavellan merely smiled. Yes. Friends. Gaspard would certainly sit on the throne tonight, and he would have rule over his precious empire. Though Lavellan expected it wouldn’t turn out how he envisioned. 

“And as a friend, perhaps there is a matter you could undertake this evening.” He fixed his cuffs. “This elven ‘ambassador’ Briala… I suspect she intends to disrupt tonight’s negotiations.” Oh definitely. “My people have found these ‘ambassadors’ all over the fortifications. Sabotage seems the least of their crimes.”

His smile sharpened. “I hope you have better evidence than ‘the elves were acting dodgy.’”

“Briala was once Celene’s servant. Until my cousin had her arrested for crimes against the empire to cover up a political mistake.” 

A political mistake? Burning Halamshiral’s slums was a fucking _political mistake_? That was goddamn genocide! 

“If anyone wishes Celene harm, Inquisitor, it’s that elf. She certainly has reason.”

Lavellan kept his entire posture relaxed and casual. No matter how much he wanted to ball his fists and punch the door.

“Be as discreet as possible,” sighed Gaspard. “I detest the Game but if we do not play it well, our enemies will brand us as fools and villains.” He gestured at the door. “But we’re keeping the court waiting. Shall we?”

He nodded because if he spoke, he suspected he'd give himself away. Gaspard opened the door. 

The music from the orchestra in the ballroom drifted, lazy in the jovial and extravagant atmosphere, threading with the ambient conversations and delicate murmurs. The court herald noted their arrival and bowed, Lavellan bowing back, before they took their places.

Lavellan stopped beside Solas and crossed his arms. “Are you sure about your introduction?” he asked.

“Inquisitor, we have already discussed this at length,” Solas said, gaze travelling across the Orlesian ballroom, cataloguing whatever it was he was searching for in his head.

“I know, but…”

“You cannot be unseen tonight,” murmured Solas, half in reassurance, half in exasperation because as Solas said, this had been discussed at _length_. By discussed, it may have also contained a few arguments as was their wont. “Your shadows will be unoccupied so allow me to dwell within them and survey from there as servants are easily overlooked. You are astute, but that does not negate the overwhelming nature of your presence. Many will hesitate to say certain things around you.”

“I know,” he grumbled.

Solas smiled though it felt entirely patronising. “Then why are we still discussing this?”

“And now presenting,” they announced. 

Gaspard descended the stairs as his name was called.

“I believe that marks the retirement of this conversation,” said Solas.

“ _I_ want to retire,” Lavellan griped.

“Misery upon misery for our poor Inquisitor,” Solas said without any real sympathy.

“Ass.”

Solas nudged Lavellan forward at his cue and he huffed, descending the stairs.

“Lord Inquisitor Lavellan,” they introduced. 

Protocol would have him begin the walk towards the other end of the ballroom so the empress could receive him, but he stood atop the stairs at the ballroom’s other end instead and waited, directly across Celene. He kept his stare level, right arm by his side, the left bent and across his torso. Lavellan would walk once everybody in the Inquisition had been announced.

Whispers began anew.

Thus began his inner circle’s introductions. He managed to keep a straight face at Sera’s, bit back a smile as Cassandra irritably cut off her long name, and clenched his jaw once Solas passed him, introduced as Lavellan’s manservant. And still, Lavellan stood. He might be pushing it but no matter. He finally walked once the last of his companions had been introduced.

Lavellan stopped and bowed before the empress. If she disapproved, he couldn’t tell due to their distance and the mask, but he recalled that Celene found these affairs dull so he supposed he'd given her something amusing tonight.

Grand Duchess Florianne scrutinised him and their eyes met for a sharp flicker of a second. 

Gaspard barrelled on through and forewent civility ― not that Celene was having any of that shit. He bowed out after and gave Lavellan a subtle nod. His inner circle excused themselves and so it was just him left, the court’s focus shifting to him, thousands of eyes at the back of his neck. He could almost feel the knives hidden up sleeves.

Was that impression from this empire or an ancient, faded one?

They engaged in conversation brimming with metaphors and double speak, and while Lavellan could keep up with the rhythm of her dance, it still took his entire concentration to do so. Celene was a proficient player of the Game after all. She had to be to earn and keep the throne for this long.

And a small part of him roiled in its frustration because it knew, _knew_ that this was child’s play and that he was more capable than this. That he could dance with an empress.

That he could dance with the gods.

Lavellan bowed after Celene’s dismissal and ascended the steps away from the dance floor, grinding his teeth as if the irritation had coated it and it would vanish if he wore away at it long enough.

Leliana met him at the top of the steps.

“Inquisitor, a word when you finish your business here?” she asked and he nodded. “Meet me at the vestibule.”

He let Leliana go and met up with Sera. Five of them had been stationed in the ballroom. It would be the main hub of activity, and so he placed his three advisors and Vivienne in it, and Sera who could contact the Friends. 

“Tits tittering behind their masks,” was her greeting when he arrived. “They don’t know if they’re allowed to like you or not.” She grinned and leaned against the side table. “Got a few of them scared too.”

“Oh good,” he said. “I _am_ pretty scary.”

“Pft, don’t push it. You’re an idiot is what you are.”

“As the Lady Mai Bhalsych says.”

She sniggered.

Vivienne had been averse to Sera’s presence, but Lavellan needed her here. Not only because she could contact Red Jenny, but also, he needed her for the same reason that Vivienne had for not wanting her here: she was unapologetically herself. Silliness and all. That was Sera’s whole tactic.

As she once told him, “They’re too busy sniffing at you and turning their noses up to see you’d taken their breeches.”

Underestimation was a powerful force to exploit. Underestimation led to complacency.

Complacency led to victory.

Everybody had an important role tonight and he had to play to their talents.

“Watch me make them hate themselves for liking me,” he said. “It’s going to be a blast.”

“You better. I got sovs bet with Varric.”

“He bet against me? Ouch.”

She shrugged. “So prove him wrong. I win five sovs. Easy.”

“Only five? Bump it up to ten when you see him later.”

“Your head’s getting big. I’ll kick it.” 

“You want to get rich or not?”

Sera grinned, toothy and impish. “Sure I do. Fine. Go nail some nobs then.” She frowned. “Not that kind of nail. How would you even get started? They’re all ruffled up like chickens. You’d fall asleep in it.”

Lavellan laughed.

“I mean, you take the skirt and there’s another skirt. Could crawl under it, I suppose.”

“ _No_ crawling up people’s dresses!”

“Maybe _you_ wouldn’t. You’re in good with ser poncy elven glory bits. Bet he yells it out when he does it too.”

“I’m not in good with anything!”

“What, he in yours then?”

Lavellan wasn’t sure if he was laughing or groaning as he buried his face in his hands. “Nobody’s in— Just— Forget I ever spoke.”

She sniggered and shoved him aside. Lavellan gave her two of his middle fingers before he made the rounds in the ballroom, passed Commander Cullen’s gaggle of adoring nobles (and sent a cheery, unhelpful wave in response to Cullen throwing him a pleading look), found Vivienne conversing with three noblewomen, and spoke with Josephine and her sister.

Once he finished, he returned to the vestibule where he spotted Cassandra glowering in her little spot as a noble prattled on beside her, seemingly unaware of her worsening mood.

He grimaced and headed for Leliana.

“Do you think I overstepped earlier when I didn’t walk until all of the Inquisition was announced?” he asked.

She led them to a chaise and perched more than sat on it. “It would depend on who you ask. But it would certainly be taken as you making a statement.” Leliana crossed her legs and tilted her head, eyes sharp. “Or a small rebellion.”

Lavellan answered with a secret smile.

“At any rate, I find myself once again surprised at your… aptitude in court.”

“I had excellent teachers.”

“Of course,” she acknowledged, “but some things cannot be taught. Can only be gained through experience.” Her eyes glimmered and he knew she would dissect his actions tonight, form her conclusions and theories. Or perhaps she already had theories about him. What could they be? 

“You’ll find that power dynamics are not limited to noble courts,” he said. “There are plenty of power struggles in Dalish clans. Especially in a clan as large as mine.”

“I see,” she said in a way that signified she did not, in fact, see. Rather, it strengthened her suspicions. Lavellan let her have them. 

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” he asked and redirected the conversation to Morrigan.

Once she imparted her information, he wandered the Guest Wing. Blackwall was in the Hall of Heroes, sitting in the lower levels conveniently away from immediate view. Perfect for picking up conversation between passers-by. 

Two elven servants lingered by the entrance to the Guest Wing.

Their gazes met as he approached.

He passed them.

One pressed a piece of paper into his hand and he walked right along, ignored the jump of his heart. Was that new? That had to be new. The elven servants had treated him with caution in his past life. Had Briala told them of the incident at the warehouse last night?

He still sensed a few eyes on him, so he made no reaction. It would be dangerous for him and the servants if the nobles realised they were working together.

Solas was in his furtive corner, leaning against a statue, though Lavellan was almost tempted to describe it as lounging, luxuriating in the atmosphere. He rested in the slight shadows, regarded it all with a relaxed and almost amused disposition. Lavellan gravitated towards him before he could think about it.

He stopped in front of Solas.

Solas smiled slow, easy, almost decadent.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” he all but purred. 

Holy shit, the bastard was tipsy.

Lavellan positioned himself slightly beside him and leaned back against the statue, pulled out the paper. It put him in a somewhat hidden position. Solas noticed the letter and angled himself as if further obscuring Lavellan from sight.

“Secret admirers?” Solas teased.

“I’ll let you know.”

“And why is that?”

“You seem to enjoy knowing everything about everyone.”

> _Package in upper guest wing. Require assistance._

“Well, well,” Lavellan murmured. “I’ve earned some friends.”

“I am unsurprised. I have heard whispers,” said Solas. “The elven servants seem willing to place a moderate amount of faith in you.”

“I suspect you’ve heard more than just whispers.”

Solas directed his smile at Lavellan, a subtle aristocratic confidence dripping from his demeanour. Why did Lavellan never question this further the first time?

Ah, yes.

Lavellan had been very, _very_ attracted.

He almost laughed at himself. Or maybe cried. This was why you should always think with the head _above_ the torso, not the one below it.

“Whispers, I fear, are the only currency I may deal with for now,” said Solas. “I do not quite have the look of an elven servant and so I cannot pass completely ignored. However, the Orlesians are unsure what to make of me. I have given them no purchase.” 

Lavellan picked up on an interesting conversation and tuned into it. Solas noticed and quieted.

“You don’t have to do that,” said Lavellan. “I can do both just fine.”

“Are you boasting?”

He grinned. “Kind of.”

“You have truly proven yourself a marvel tonight,” praised Solas.

Lavellan was thankfully distracted by the turn in the conversation he had been eavesdropping on.

“Oh? How interesting,” said Lavellan. “Hear that, Solas? It would be a shame if word got out, wouldn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, I did not. You have dominated most of my attention.”

His thoughts and coherency momentarily fizzled pathetically out of existence but Lavellan hissed for them to return while he fought back a flustered flush of his ears. He was only half successful.

“Have you been drinking?” Lavellan asked in lieu of a response. 

Solas tipped his head. “Only a little,” he admitted. “The servants have been happy to refill my glass.” 

Yeah? No shit. Some of them thought him a god.

Well, if he lounged about like that and spoke like that and overall was just like… _that_ ―

Lavellan cleared his throat and pushed off the statue, pocketed the note. “Well, time to see where this leads. I’ll be back.”

And Solas’ eyes squinted from his smile.

“Hunt well,” he bid, sharp delight dancing within his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's not here to play nice lmao. 
> 
> Lavellan: hey guys look i have knives!  
> Orlesian ~~morons~~ nobles: hahaha ah yes i get it ur ears look like knives! oh Inquisitor ur too funny!!!  
> Lavellan, holding an actual knife behind his back: ･ᴗ･
> 
> Honestly, poor Lavellan's a mess of emotions tonight. The Winter Palace is both a battlefield and a museum of painful memories but he can't afford to let it get to him.
> 
> (Today, I cried over space. It's just so biG and beauTIFUL and we're all so goddamn small and I shouldn't have taken this astronomy subject I'm getting an existential crisis every five seconds)
> 
> \-->[Lavellan moodboards that nobody asked for](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/632675561510256640/mahanon-lavellan-i-made-two-and-my)<\--


	42. Prowling darkened corridors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Space is as BEAUTIFUL as you, dear reader, and it is as VAST AND BIG as my LOVE for you.
> 
> I love space.
> 
> But if I hear rotational and recessional velocity one more time i will make u measure the velocity of MY body hurtling thru space as i throw myself off this planet.

_the heart of this rotting realm—_

* * *

Lavellan beheld the view on the empty balcony of the upper Guest Wing, frowned at the dots of light from the distant slums of Halamshiral. A reminder of his purpose tonight.

Vergala perched on the railings and cawed.

“Hello love,” he said with a smile and rubbed the underside of her beak. “You wouldn’t happen to know where a package that a few elves have dropped earlier is, would you?”

She took off and dove into the small garden beside the balcony, reappeared with a cylinder clutched tight in her claws which she dropped into his waiting hand. 

“Well hello,” he murmured and uncapped the cylinder, let the rolled paper it contained drop into his hand. That paper was a log of the elves who'd disappeared in the Servant’s Quarters. He ran his fingers over Vergala’s head. “Well done. Stay alert and help the Inquisition soldiers if they need you. Anything suspicious, tell me.” 

She cawed in agreement and departed. Lavellan pocketed the cylinder and returned to the party where he conversed with a flustered Council of Heralds Vassal (something about a guy named Philippe?), stumbled into Gaspard’s uncle, collected a few more sordid scandals, and sidled up beside Bull who was lurking beside the window.

And beside the table of food.

“I see you have the food, a view of the nobles, and a view of Dorian outside. Truly an opportune spot,” said Lavellan breezily as he snagged a small pastry off a plate.

Bull eyed him. “You know?”

“Yes,” he said. “He hasn’t told me though.”

“This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” Bull asked. “Not violating any rules if there even are any?”

“As if I’d presume to regulate who people take to bed. So long as it’s consensual and all parties are comfortable.” He glanced at Bull. “Are you two alright with it?”

Bull shrugged. “We’ve got a good system going. It’s cool.”

Lavellan pressed his lips. “Right.” He was still uncertain about their relationship, had no desire to see Dorian heartbroken once again, but a lot of things had already changed. Bull was separated from the Qun, absent of any allegiances or loyalty to it, but things could still go wrong. He huffed out a heavy breath and shoved the pastry into his mouth. For now, the best he could do was keep an eye on them.

“Solas is staring at you,” said Bull.

Lavellan almost choked on his pastry, regretted eating the thing in one bite. Bull grinned.

A servant was quick to present him with a tray of drinks and Lavellan eyed the tray with suspicion, but the servant carrying it smiled at him and their face offered a spark of familiarity.

“Cap?” Lavellan asked dumbly as he took a glass of wine. Gone was the usual cap that was their namesake, their blonde curls pinned up into a knot. Their smile widened and they offered him a cloth to wipe his mouth with, glanced at it meaningfully, and left when Lavellan took it. There was something solid wrapped within the cloth, pressing into his palms.

Bull grunted beside him. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you know the names of every servant here too?”

“No,” mumbled Lavellan as he took a sip. He'd grown somewhat picky with his wine (and he placed the blame squarely at Dorian’s feet for being so fussy), so his face scrunched mildly at the taste. Stingy Orlesians wouldn’t bring out their finest casks until the end of the night. Antivans had them beat.

He placed the glass down and made a show of wiping his mouth with the cloth, unfolded the cloth slightly as he pulled it away and spied the item within.

A small key. On the head were the carved initials _S.Q._

Servant’s Quarters! He tucked the cloth into his coat and met Cap’s eyes across the room. Lavellan tipped his head slightly. They returned it and turned away. Well, this was new. His little detour in Halamshiral had earned him the elven servants’ help it seemed.

“I expect trouble soon,” said Lavellan. “Stay here.”

“Taking Solas then?”

“Yeah.”

Bull chuckled. “I’m going to be here the entire night, aren’t I?”

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You’ll get your turn.” Lavellan met Solas’ stare across the room, subtly reached up to fiddle with his left cufflinks. _Fight soon_. Solas nodded slightly.

Codes rarely worked half the time, more gimmick than practical, but devising a tasteful few had their uses.

“Be back,” said Lavellan and Bull made an agreeing noise. He entered the garden and spoke with the empress’ three ladies-in-waiting, made more vague, metaphorical promises, then met up with Dorian. Lavellan eyed the trellises on either side of the fountain. He needed to reach the upper levels and enter Celene’s secret office. Even if he already knew about Morrigan, there were important files there that Leliana could exploit later.

“I am a little uneasy about this excited gleam in your eyes,” said Dorian beside him. “What mischief are you considering this time?”

“I need to get up there.”

“Pray tell, _why_?”

“Library’s up there.”

Dorian sighed. “Inquisitor, if you wished to read books, this is not the place to do so.”

“Please distract everyone?”

“There are at least twenty people here. How?”

“Orlesians love flashy displays.”

Dorian stared at him. Lavellan beamed back.

His shoulders sagged in relent. “The things I do for you,” he grumbled and Lavellan’s beam brightened.

“Love you,” he said.

“See, the ease in which you say that lets me know you truly don’t.”

“Are you questioning the force of my affections?” Lavellan asked, hand to his heart in mock offence.

“Towards Solas? No. Towards me? Very much so. Oh come now, don’t give me that look,” said Dorian with a teasing grin. “You know I’m right.”

“Can we retire this conversation and get to the distracting thing?”

He waved a hand. “Such a demanding man I work for. Alright, go commit your crimes, you utter hooligan.” 

Lavellan inched away under the pretence of inspecting the rest of the garden while Dorian clapped his hands, made a grand sweeping announcement, and began the agreed flashy display. The Orlesians ooh’ed and aah’ed while Lavellan hauled himself up the trellis.

He must be quick. Solas was right in that his presence was overwhelming tonight and its absence would not go unnoticed.

Blood on the marble floors. He followed the trail into a side door and frowned at the lock, gave the door a tentative push. The door opened without resistance. Lavellan entered the dim room ― a storage of sorts, piled with all manners of discarded furniture and artworks and two dead bodies. The smell of death was strangely absent, and he frowned at the traces of blue powder on the floor. Lavellan swiped his finger along it and examined it.

Choke powder. Usually employed by Orlesian harlequins and bards. The deep mushroom used for it must have covered up the smell of death.

Lavellan wiped it off on a nearby cloth and gingerly picked up the fallen letter, just shy of being stained by the puddle of blood.

It was Gaspard’s letter to Celene, urging her to join forces with him against Briala and her weapon. Must be talking about the eluvian network. Lavellan eyed the dead Orlesians. Someone didn’t want them getting a hold of this information, and he would pin this as Briala’s doing since he couldn’t imagine the Venatori being interested by this. Powerful and threatening Corypheus was, but clever and cunning he was not.

Lavellan entered the library foyer and inspected the corner bookshelf, searched for the false book, and pulled it when he found it. A portion of the wall slid open.

He picked up Celene’s letter to Morrigan in the study, folded and tucked important files away into his coat, and entered the library proper where Cole had sequestered himself into.

“Everything alright?” Lavellan asked. Cole was the only one without an assigned station, free to roam and wander so he wouldn’t be stressed. Court was a difficult place for spirits of Compassion.

“This place hurts you,” Cole said, fiddling with the edges of his gloves. “This place hurts itself too. Faces within faces, lying in layers and I can’t help them. I tried to help. Then they didn’t want me to. So now they’ve forgotten.”

“This entire empire is built on hurt, Cole.” He sighed and sat on the arm of the chaise. “And it lives on it. They use it as a weapon.”

“Why?”

“Because hurt is powerful.”

He stared at Lavellan. “And you sharpen your hurt, shatter and show them they can’t do it that way. Flinching from hidden laughs, first taste of the world, and it was so cruel and you wouldn’t let that happen again.” Cole frowned and tilted his head. “Heavy disappointment on your tongue so you changed because you don't want him to taste that same disappointment. You searched for a way to change your face.”

“Sometimes, I think you know more about me than I do,” said Lavellan.

“You know,” said Cole. “But there’s a curtain, cold, collapsing. It doesn’t want to let me in, doesn’t want anything in, but sometimes a bit of it falls and I see. You see too. The curtain wasn’t your doing.”

Lavellan frowned. “Who then?”

Cole stayed quiet, eyes closing as his brows furrowed, tilted his head as if attuning his ears to a certain sound. 

“It’s… old,” he said. “And gone.” He opened his eyes and shook his head.

The ballroom bell tolled and Lavellan glanced at the exit. It only tolled when somebody important was about to be introduced, and it would be suspicious and rude if the Inquisitor were absent.

“I have to go,” he said.

Cole was still frowning. “It hurts you here but… you like avoiding it. Dancing and dangerous, daggers flashing but words, not metal. You need it to be fun and dangerous. You don’t drown in the river when the currents are rushing and rapid. But Entropy always called too loud.” He shook his head and touched his hand to the Amulet of the Unbound beneath his uniform. “Don’t listen to it. We bind you. Stay with us.”

Lavellan stared at him, parsed through his words. The tarot card from the Fade flashed in his mind’s eye.

“That’s a demon name, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“You can’t be a demon,” said Cole and something foreboding lingered in his eyes. “But we’re more when we follow this world. Not a slide but a space. All at once.” His gaze dropped. “It’s worse.”

He laughed nervously. “Cole, I’d appreciate it if we kept the ominous warnings to a minimum tonight.”

Cole nodded. “It should be alright, tonight. The shadows are happy to be shadows again.”

“Right,” said Lavellan. “That’s better, I think? Will you be alright here?”

“Probably.”

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” Lavellan hurried through the library and re-entered the vestibule, puzzled over Cole’s words. So engrossed was he that he hadn’t noticed Morrigan’s approach until―

“Well, well.”

* * *

Lavellan watched Briala’s introduction finish and caught her look as she retreated to a secluded balcony. He straightened and dumped the secrets and scandals he'd acquired onto Leliana whose eyes gleamed like a child receiving their first Satinalia present.

He garnered Sera’s attention across the ballroom and gave the same signal he did to Solas and she perked. 

For now, he followed Briala.

She turned and greeted him with a sharp smile, mask donned this time.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, we meet once again,” she said. “What a coincidence.”

“I know. It’s almost as if we were invited to the same jamboree.” He watched a butterfly drift over the flowers in a nearby vase. “I’ve had help from unexpected places tonight. Are you so eager to kill me that you point me towards the place where a lot of elves are seemingly not returning?”

Briala chuckled. “If I wished to kill you, Inquisitor, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Well now, I like to think I’m a little hard to kill.”

Her gaze traced the silver cuffs on his ears and her smiled turned entertained. “You’ve caused quite a stir tonight. The Inquisition is on everybody’s lips. Especially its Inquisitor.”

“All controversial things, I hope.”

“You’ll be pleased to hear it is.”

“You’re right, I am pleased.” Lavellan returned her smile. “So then, Ambassador, mind telling me what I’ve done to earn the friendship of Halamshiral’s elves?”

“Saving their people from slavery tends to do the trick,” she said. “And seeing your aptitude for fighting… Well, I suppose out of anyone I send, you would have the higher rate of survivability. You _did_ survive a fight of fifteen to one relatively unscathed.”

“True enough. Your agents are likely dying because of Tevinter rats sneaking into the place, by the way.”

“The same from yesterday, I presume?”

“The one and only.”

“Well then it’s a good thing I’m sending you.” Her eyes twinkled behind the mask. “It is so lovely to see these things work out.”

“Are you going to investigate?” he asked.

“Later, I will follow,” she said. “I just need to receive a few more reports.”

He nodded. “I’ll see you around then, Ambassador.”

“Try not to die. You’ve yet to uphold your grand promises.”

“The Fade and an ancient darkspawn Magister tried to kill me and I’m still alive,” he said. “It’d be mortifying if I died from anything less.” 

“It would be, and I would be the first to mock you at your funeral.”

“As you rightfully should.”

She snorted.

* * *

Lavellan took out the key Cap had given him and unlocked the door to the Servant’s Quarters. As soon as he shut it behind him, he sighed.

“This is turning out to be a long night,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” grumbled Cassandra and Sera sniggered.

“Is your name really that long or are you having it on? You really Cassandra Allergy Porta Fillomajig Pentaghast?”

“It really is. My family is as pretentious as it is large.”

As they discussed Cassandra’s supremely long name and stitching it on breeches, Lavellan turned to Solas who ran his hands along the stone of the wall. He took out a loose brick before a small section of the wall swung open.

“The Winter Palace just conveniently has secret wall compartments, huh?” asked Lavellan, tying his hair back.

“It has gone unused for quite some time,” said Solas and took out a sword which he passed on to Cassandra. “But you would be hard-pressed to find a castle without secrets.”

“How did you gain access here?” asked Lavellan, trained his stare at the back of Solas’ head. He had agents here too after all, and some of them were likely within Briala’s ranks too. Solas smiled at Lavellan over his shoulder. Sharp.

“I have my ways, just as you do.”

Lavellan couldn’t press further because the door opened and an Inquisition soldier poked their head through.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” they said and saluted, offered the rucksack with his weapons.

“Thank you.” He took it and the soldier returned to the party. Lavellan took his daggers, a few elixirs, and shoved the rest back into the cache in the wall. Solas passed Sera a bow and a full quiver before he reached into his coat and pulled out his shrunken staff.

Lavellan laughed. “How the hell did you hide that?”

Solas extended the staff with a flood of magic. “A true mage never divulges the secrets of their trade.”

“You’re obnoxious.” He detached his cape and tied it around his belt before brandishing his daggers. “Is everyone’s weapon alright?”

“It will have to do,” said Cassandra. 

“Solas, which cache is my bow in?” he asked. “I am quite attached to that bow. If it goes missing, I’m going to burn this palace.”

“In the Royal Wing, I believe.”

“Pft,” said Sera. “Didn’t bring mine. Don’t want it missing.”

“See, that’s smart,” Lavellan muttered. “But no, apparently I’m picky with the bow I want to use.”

They navigated the corridors and empty rooms and found themselves in the kitchens where more dead bodies greeted them. Elven. No smell either. More blue powder from the choke powder coated the floor. Lavellan highly doubted these were from Briala’s agents. Venatori rats then.

“Whoever did this oughta be down here somewhere,” Sera said, but her eyes lingered on the bodies, fists clenched by her sides. “What fully qualified arsehole stops to kill a cook?”

Lavellan approached the dead servants. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet so this must be recent. He bowed his head and murmured rites before he rose and investigated the kitchens and quarters for any journals or logs. When that proved fruitless, they exited into the garden and passed the arcade of arbours, descended into the lower courtyard where yet another dead body awaited by the fountain.

“This is no servant,” said Cassandra with a frown.

“Chalons crest on the dagger hilt,” said Lavellan. Florianne’s setup, but he had to play along. “Strange that they’d just leave this evidence out.”

“You suspect they’re setting up Grand Duke Gaspard?” Cassandra asked.

“Or he’s an idiot,” said Lavellan and crouched, retrieved the dagger and wrapped it in the dead Emissary’s sash. Could be useful later.

A scream interrupted them. An elven servant ran from a Harlequin.

“Solas―!” Lavellan called, and Solas’ magic was already stirring, ready, but with a swift slash, the Harlequin felled her. The rest of his words died in his throat.

Venatori soldiers followed close. The Harlequin dropped a pellet on the ground and disappeared in a cloud of smoke, left traces of blue on the floor. Ah. The Harlequin escaped into an upper window of the Grand Apartments beside them.

“I thought those stupid clown farps were Orlesian!” cried Sera, drawing her bow and letting her arrows fly. Lavellan sidestepped a charging Venatori and pivoted, stabbed into their neck. 

“Venatori agent, likely,” said Lavellan. 

Solas’ barrier shimmered to life and deflected a Venatori’s slash while Cassandra tore into them. He eyed Solas. The barrier didn’t feel as it did yesterday. Holding back again today, it seemed. After the last of them died, Lavellan hurried through the gardens and entered the Apartments to chase after the Harlequin and encountered more Venatori. Promptly taken care of.

Lavellan slipped on a puddle of blood but Solas caught him.

“Try not to get blood on your uniform, Inquisitor,” said Solas.

“Oh sure, let’s worry about the Inquisitor’s uniform and not the Venatori infesting the place and the dead people,” he muttered.

“I suspect showing up at court in bloodstained clothes will net you a negative reputation which may as well be a noose around your neck.” He dusted off the front of Lavellan’s coat but he was certain there was nothing there. “But by all means.”

“Can you two shits oil and smash your bits another time?” asked Sera. “Don’t wanna hear this.”

Solas scowled and Lavellan burst into laughter.

More Venatori came at the sound and Sera threw the loaf of bread on the table at Lavellan’s head.

“You nob!” she shrieked. Which called even more Venatori to this, admittedly, rather large dining room, but even large dining rooms had a limit to how many angry Venatoris it could fit. Cassandra gave her trademark disgusted sigh.

Anyway, it was _fine_. It turned out _fine_. It went great.

He gestured at himself and raised a challenging brow at Solas.

“Am I bloodstained?”

Cassandra pointedly wiped her sword on the coat of a dead Venatori. “You will be if you continue being a child,” she threatened. Lavellan opened his mouth to protest but she shot him a withering look. “No.”

He closed his mouth, a smile threatening to pull at it.

“No,” she said again. “Do _not_ laugh.”

Lavellan bit his lip and grinned, saluted, then they investigated further and ascended to the upper floors. More Venatori in a bedroom, trying to open the vault.

Sera shot the spellbinder and Solas engulfed the other three in flames before Lavellan could go in for the kill.

He shot Solas an unimpressed look. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Do you?”

“I feel as if you care more about the uniform than me.”

“Perish the thought,” said Solas.

Lavellan snorted and examined the vault door which had no locks or knobs and sighed. Oh, he remembered this door. Pain in the ass. Small displays were inlaid into the wall around the door, exhibited decorative ornaments, but three were blank. He patted the lowest empty display and felt the three, small protrusions in a line on the bottom.

“Kind of door doesn’t have a knob? Or a lock?” asked Sera, lightly kicking it.

“It has a lock,” said Lavellan and searched the room. Empress Celene’s old quarters. He searched the closet and pushed an assortment of clothes out of the way, opened nightstands and drawers.

“What are you doing?” asked Cassandra, tone edging into impatience. “The Venatori―”

“Aha!” crowed Lavellan and lifted a halla statuette, the base of it containing three small notches. He returned to the door and aligned the statuette base with the protrusions on the display. Twisted. Something clicked. He grinned at them and gently kicked the door open. “Voila. Now then, why were the Venatori digging here?”

Sera all but dove into the room. Solas followed with more self-restraint and Cassandra lingered by the doorway to keep watch. 

Lavellan crouched in front of the safe.

“Sera?” he called out. “Did you bring your lock―”

She chucked the kit at him.

He caught it. “―picks. Never mind.” He unrolled the kit, scrutinised the lock, and set to work. The lock was simple. Complacency from the vault’s annoying door.

Sera lurked behind him and looked at the lock over his shoulder, her cheeks hovering close to his.

Lavellan stared at her. She gestured for him to continue and he returned to it, but she soon started drumming her fingers on her thigh, played with the short tail of his hair in the ponytail. Lavellan gave her an exasperated look, concentration ruined.

“Would _you_ like to do it?” he asked.

“Oh piss, yes,” she groaned. “You’re slow!”

“That’s because you’re breathing down my damn neck.”

She bumped him with her hip. “Just let me. You stand over there and do what you do best, Quisitree.” 

Lavellan grumbled and stepped back.

“Quisitree?” asked Solas.

“What, weren’t you there when I called him that?” asked Sera. “Tree ‘cause he’s all barky, but he’s got sap in his ins.” 

Solas hummed. “Some trees hollow as they age.”

“Don’t ruin it!” complained Sera and the lock clicked open.

“So… they’re dead inside?” asked Lavellan.

“Something along that vein.”

Lavellan stared at him. “I can’t be-leaf you just did that.”

“ _Wood_ you prefer it if I stopped?”

Oh Creators, how much did Solas drink for him to be indulging Lavellan like this? 

“No, no, we have to get to the _root_ of this issue,” said Lavellan. “Is this payback for the wolf puns?”

“You accused my humour of being high-brow and so I deigned to branch out and explore different avenues.”

He grinned. Someone was in a good mood. “Oh you deigned, did you? So generous of you to indulge me with this dia _log_.” 

“What did I say about oiling each other’s bits?” asked Sera, punctuated it by throwing the safe door open. 

“Apologies Sera,” said Solas. “I did not mean to cause you pine. However, I conifer yew re-leaf. Say the word and I will bough out.” Delivered with an immaculately austere expression. Lavellan was torn between groaning and cackling. 

“No, stop, stop! Those were terrible!” he begged.

“Talk proper!” she cried.

“Alright,” said Lavellan, “I think it’s time to stop. She’ll get sycamore puns.”

Solas finally cracked a smile. “As you say. It will be tree-cherous of us to continue.”

“I hate you both,” she groaned and packed her lockpicks and marched out the door.

Lavellan covered his mouth so his laughter wouldn’t attract any Venatori still skulking about. Solas chuckled, and Lavellan’s chest and face warmed at the sound. He turned away before the warmth could squeeze into something hurtful and aching. No, let this remain happy. Let what little moments of joy they had remain like that, untainted by the past.

The opened safe contained a small and lonely jewellery box. Simple, for one owned by an empress at least. A forest was painted on its exterior, blue in the morning mist, ornamented with silver filigrees. Lavellan opened it. The box held one, and only one thing.

An elven locket.

Lavellan took it, gave it a grim, considering look. The first time he'd found this, he'd been touched, somewhat. It was sweet that Celene had kept it. Now? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps Celene truly didn’t know why she'd still held onto it. She'd done her best to rid herself of it by leaving it here, but she was never able to truly let go.

Celene did love Briala. In whatever twisted capacity she could.

But Celene loved her throne more.

Solas stood beside him to investigate what had struck Lavellan silent. Lavellan stole a look at him. 

“It is of elven make,” murmured Solas. Lavellan averted his gaze when Solas glanced at him.

“They loved each other for twenty years,” said Lavellan. “Built on lies as it was. That doesn’t disappear easily.” His gaze softened as he traced the delicate lines of the locket. “Love’s annoying like that.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Lavellan closed his hand over the locket and placed it in his pocket, said nothing in return. He… wasn’t sure what to do about it. Maybe he could return it to Briala at the end of tonight.

He couldn’t answer Solas because Sera yelled from outside.

“I found the clown farp!”

Glad for the opening, Lavellan took it and fled that conversation. Daggers were easy. Fighting was easy, straightforward in its own way, and he could pretend that the ache in his chest was from the exertion.

Lavellan hated fighting against other rogues.

He untied his cape, threw it at the Harlequin, and splashed an elixir of fire at it. The reagents reacted and the Harlequin flailed at the flames, flung it off themselves and ran shrieking. Lavellan winced. They ran around the corner only to be met with a throwing knife to the throat. 

The Harlequin fell with a gurgle. Briala swept into view, threw a nearby canvas over the Harlequin to douse the flames, then looked up at Lavellan’s group.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” she greeted. “You’re still alive.”

“Hello to you too, Ambassador.” He smiled. “I did say I was hard to kill.”

“And it seems you’re not the only one who can deliver results,” she said, examining his companions. “You’ve cleaned this place out. It will take months to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble.” She stepped over a dead Venatori with faint distaste.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in time. Some of the servants were dead when I found them.”

She sighed and they stepped out onto the balcony, away from the corpses. “You’ve avenged them, at the very least. Servants are always the first to die in the Game. You don’t want them tattling after all.” Briala watched the stars. “We mean nothing to them.”

The elven locket weighed his pocket down.

“Not that I’m a saint,” she said. “I’m guilty of the same thing.”

“We all are,” he murmured.

Briala gave him a considering look, gathered whatever it was she needed, and Lavellan let her. To a reasonable extent. Her eyes shimmered with a conclusion he was not privy to.

“The Council of Heralds Emissary?” she asked.

“Dead when we found him,” he said and showed her the Chalons dagger. “Found this as the murder weapon. Either Gaspard is that much of an idiot or somebody’s attempting to frame him.”

“He has a strange sense of honour,” she said. “It turns him stupid sometimes.”

“The Chevalier code,” he scoffed.

“Whether he did or did not, this is evidence against him.” She smiled. “If that’s the angle you’re working with tonight.”

“I could be working at an angle against you.”

“A little late for that, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan laughed. True enough. Not after his promises last night.

Briala’s smile reminded him of the flat edge of a knife flipping to show its serrated edge. “You’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to have the support of an army of elven spies. I would bet coin that you’ll be part of the peace talks tonight, and I can see you plan for it to be so. Continue leaning on our side and you’ll get more than a taste.”

He pursed his lips. “I’m not trying to amass an army.”

“You often have little choice in the matter,” said Solas behind him. “Earning loyalties will place you in that position.”

“Don’t I know it?” he muttered. 

“Just a thought,” she said and perched on the balcony edge. “You should return to the ballroom. The nobility will be bereft of your company.”

He scowled. “I’m sure they’re breathlessly anticipating a dance with me.”

“Off you go then. You don’t want to leave a string of broken hearts in your wake.”

If they were the broken hearts of Orlesian nobles then he could give less than a fuck. One was already too generous. Half a fuck. 

“Keep the Chalons dagger. It may be useful later.” She unsheathed a small dagger and handed him the scabbard. “See if it fits.”

It did. He wrapped the sash around the now sheathed dagger and tucked it back into his coat. Bless Madame Sartre for sewing so many inner pockets into this coat.

Briala leapt off the balcony and descended into the garden, gave orders to her agents, and they scattered to investigate further. Lavellan mussed his hair and turned to his companions with an exhausted grunt. This was a long night. Despite the other items in his pockets, he was most aware of the elven locket pressing into him.

“More politics and double-dealing,” said Cassandra. “Is there anyone here who isn’t corrupt?”

“It _is_ Orlais,” said Lavellan. “Everyone has a hidden agenda tonight. It’s kind of par for the course. Even we have hidden agendas.”

“Do _we_?” asked Solas. “A fascinating use of the term.”

Cassandra frowned. “I suppose we are here to stop the assassination attempt.”

“That is the _we_ of his sentence,” said Solas. “But what of the _you_ , Inquisitor?”

And Lavellan smiled. “I don’t recall mentioning anything about me. I’m here to stop Orlais from descending into a latrine.”

“Neglecting to mention does not signify absence of the notion.”

Oh yeah? Bastard would know, wouldn’t he? “That rhymes. You should write it down and frame it.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Cassandra.

“Dunno but they make my head hurt,” said Sera. “Stop it.”

Lavellan said nothing and retrieved his fallen cape, fire long doused. It wasn’t bloodstained, thank goodness, and he clipped it back on. They descended into the garden and retraced their steps back through another corridor in the Servant’s Quarter, back to the room with the hidden cache. They returned their weapons and Solas shrank his staff, tucked it back into his coat. It… worked. Somehow. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so mind-boggling since Lavellan had just shoved a dagger into his coat. Still, that staff was bulkier.

Sera surprisingly remained the most pristine out of all them. She waltz out and waved at Blackwall. Cassandra scuffed her boots on the stone floor to wipe off any blood on the soles before she was out too.

That left Lavellan with Solas. The bell for the ballroom tolled and Lavellan grumbled, shoved his daggers back into the rucksack, patted himself down and fixed his attire as best he could, and untied his hair. 

“Here,” said Solas. He turned Lavellan to face him and inspected his attire with a critical eye, fixed his cape, straightened the collar. His fingers brushed against the skin of Lavellan’s neck. Solas appraised him once more with a soft hum. “Better.”

“Once again,” said Lavellan, “I feel as if you care more about the uniform than me.”

“The uniform is your armour for tonight. I would prefer if it performed to a satisfactory standard.”

“You could’ve just said, ‘I don’t want you to die.’”

Solas met his eyes, grey in the dim. “I don’t want you to die,” he repeated.

 _Too late_ , Lavellan almost said but instead kept his mouth shut, gave Solas a smile that was more wry than sincere and Solas picked up on it. Not that either of them knew what to do about it. 

“Well,” croaked Lavellan, “better go back to the ballroom. Jo’s right. Fashionably late’s a very fickle window.”

“One moment,” he murmured and carded his fingers through Lavellan’s hair, smoothed it back to something more presentable, probably. Lavellan stayed stillness, refused to release the tension otherwise he'd lean into Solas’ touch and the pleasant rake of his fingers and Lavellan had no time for that. He arranged a few strands a specific way and Lavellan snorted.

“Don’t worry Solas. I’m sure I can survive if one strand is a millimetre off.”

“I am sure,” he said in a way that let Lavellan know he highly doubted it. Solas stepped back. “There. Go on. Charm and unnerve the Orlesian nobles in equal measure.”

“With absolute pleasure.” Lavellan perked at the second toll and threw a quick farewell over his shoulder before he strode back towards the ballroom. Heads turned and whispers began anew at his arrival. A dance had begun on the floor.

“Inquisitor Lavellan?”

Grand Duchess Florianne glided more than walked towards him, presenting her deceptively mellow smile.

“Grand Duchess Florianne,” he greeted and bowed, itching for a dagger or a knife or a sharp object. Any sharp object. He was resourceful enough to make it hurt. Maybe stab her with the Chalons dagger.

“Welcome to my party,” she said. 

“You have impeccable timing,” he said. “I’m sure your approach is no accident.”

Her eyes glinted even as the rest of her expression, half-hidden by the mask as it was, remained genteel. 

“Rarely anything in Orlais ever is,” she said. “I believe tonight you and I are both concerned by the actions of… a certain person.”

Lavellan already knew her next request but he beat her to it as he offered his hand and bowed once more, attracting attention as he did. A little petty victory for himself.

“Shall we dance, Your Grace?” he asked.

Florianne placed her hand in his and narrowed her eyes even as the smile remained. “I’d be delighted.”

Lavellan brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the knuckles even if he wanted to vomit, smiled against the skin and maintained eye contact, made sure the smile would shift his vallaslin. Florianne’s expression strained. He suspected he wasn’t the only one itching for a sharp object to stab with. How delightful!

“You honour me,” he said.

“The honour is all mine.”

He pulled her down to the dance floor and took up positions. The court watched their every move.

“Spies will have trouble hearing us this way,” he explained.

“Indeed,” she said, a touch irked at having her idea stolen.

And so, they danced. In more ways than one. Cunning words and sly remarks served as their swelling strings; euphemisms and metaphors their rhythm. They moved around one another like liquid storm, and Lavellan, not one to be outdone, manoeuvred Florianne through their dance and made themselves the eye of the tempest, enthralled those around them with their movements.

“It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight,” said Florianne. The stinging scent of her perfume curled around him as a constrictor would around its prey.

“Your Grace, ‘dangerous machinations’ is the national sport. Orlais would not be Orlais without it.” The dance floor had cleared for them at this point and every eye watched them, every nearby ear attuned to their conversation ― what little they could pick up anyway. Lavellan skilfully pulled her into position as the music and their dance neared its end. He dipped her and resisted the temptation of letting her fall. The nobility gasped, applauded.

“You have little time,” warned Florianne as he pulled her up and they resumed the final few steps. “The attack will come soon. You must stop Gaspard before he strikes. You will find the captain of my brother’s mercenaries in the Royal Wing garden. He knows all of Gaspard’s secrets.” And Lavellan suspected he would also find a quaint ambush. They bowed as the dance concluded. “I’m sure you can persuade him to be forthcoming.”

He straightened and smiled cryptically. “The night is young,” he said. “Who is to say what is left in store?” 

The first hints of vicious delight finally sparked in Florianne’s eyes, so sure of her triumph and plan. _The illusion of victory_. 

“I look forward to seeing how the night plays out,” she said and they parted ways.

Lavellan ascended the steps where Josephine was waiting for him with a pleased beam.

“You’ll be the talk of the court for months,” she gushed. “We should take you dancing more often.”

He laughed. “Sure, we’ll host a little party in Skyhold, invite Corypheus, and then I can waltz him into the Void.”

“Only if you do not follow him.”

Lavellan stayed quiet and she huffed.

“What?” he asked. “I heard the Void’s a really popular tourist destination lately. Nice, cold, very Void-y.”

Josephine scrutinised him, reprimanding look fading in favour of a smile.

“You’re enjoying the Game!” she said.

“Jo, I don’t think that’s a good thing to be happy about.”

“Why not?”

“People… kind of die?”

She blinked, then sighed, pressing a worried knuckle to her lips. “That is one part of it that I have always detested. Otherwise, it is a mentally stimulating endeavour.”

“Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?” Leliana asked as she and Cullen caught up with them, tone edged with excitement.

“I think it was more smiling threateningly at each other than dancing,” he said. 

“I heard there was fighting in the Servant’s Quarters,” said Cullen. “What happened?”

Lavellan frowned. “Tevinter agents snuck in. Been killing servants. Florianne is trying to convince me that Gaspard is the traitor but I wasn’t born yesterday. She’s up to something.”

“You gathered that while dancing?” asked Cullen. “How? No, wait, never mind. Forget I asked. Maker, I don’t know how you three can enjoy it here.”

“Poor Commander,” cooed Leliana. “Spending the entire night draped in adoring crowds.”

“A true travesty,” agreed Lavellan. “I would wish for adoring crowds draped over me too, but I suspect I’ve terrified half the court and disgusted the other half.”

Josephine raised a brow. “You would hate the attention.”

“Ah but consider this: adoring. Crowds.”

“Inquisitor, you look as if you will vomit if anyone so much as even thinks of kneeling in front of you. How would you fare with an adoring crowd?”

He paused. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Shit,” he said.

“If this comforts you,” said Leliana with an amused smile, “the enigma you’ve constructed around yourself draws their curiosity.”

Cullen crossed his arms with a disgruntled huff. “Yet they stay a lovely distance away. May we swap?”

“Sorry Commander. You can’t quite pull off a threatening smile,” said Lavellan. “You end up looking like an angry puppy when you try.”

He sputtered and Leliana patted his hair with soft, reassuring coos. Cullen batted her hand away, cheeks colouring.

“There’s still the matter of the attack against the empress,” Cullen said to steer the conversation away. “Are you still planning on leaving things be?”

Lavellan’s smile faded and he rubbed the back of his neck, staring out at the balcony where Celene was speaking with a few nobles. Once again, the elven locket in his pocket pressed at him and he contemplated showing it to either or both Celene and Briala. But he refrained. 

“I am,” he said. “I’ve found a few things that the Ambassador can use as a solid leash.”

Leliana eyed him. “And you are still sure about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It is a little different from your usual, is all." 

Lavellan frowned. “I―” He shook his head and turned away. “I’m going to mix up everybody’s stations a little bit. Commander, I need you on standby. Have the soldiers ready at any moment’s notice.” He was about to face Florianne’s surprise Venatori and demons so he would need Bull and Blackwall. Maybe Cassandra? No, he shouldn’t push her too much. Her shoulder was on the cusp of recovering but he mustn’t force it. Solas was a given because he was the only mage with a staff tonight.

That would leave the Guest Wing unwatched. Hm, station Dorian and Varric there. Wherever Varric was. And later, they had to return to the ballroom.

“I’m going to need physical evidence of Gaspard’s orders to his mercenaries,” said Lavellan. “I think I know where to look. While I run around, get me access to the Royal Wing. Work with the elven servants. Tell them Inquisitor Lavellan requires their help.”

Josephine’s brows raised. “You’re working with Ambassador Briala?”

“I guess so. I didn’t set out to, but apparently my actions yesterday have swung me into their good graces.”

“That would certainly move things along,” said Leliana.

“Alright, let’s go,” said Lavellan.

“At once, Inquisitor. Be careful,” Cullen bid.

They went their separate ways. Lavellan hunted in the ballroom in the meantime because there was a little unfinished business. 

The Orlesians had a saying: To play the Game, you must dance with the Dowager. If Marquise Mantillon deemed him worthy of conversation, it was a good indicator of his standing with the court. He must be in their good graces too, otherwise Briala would be in trouble later. This early influence was essential.

There she was.

Lavellan approached with the right blend of deference and confidence, bowed. 

“Good evening, Lady Dowager,” he greeted.

He could feel eyes drawn towards them, their breaths held, awaiting the Dowager’s response, if she would deign to give it to him.

“Lord Inquisitor Lavellan,” she returned. He kept his composure but he celebrated the small victory. “You have certainly captured the court’s attention tonight. Fascinating for some. Dangerous for others.”

“Which am I to you, Lady Dowager?” he asked.

She sniffed. “I have yet to decide.”

Lavellan smoothly offered his hand. “Perhaps a dance can assist with the decision-making process?”

Dowager Mantillon’s eyes narrowed in slight glee. She snapped her fan open and fanned herself delicately. “I believe you have other dances to attend to. Perhaps save me a dance for another time?”

Lavellan gave her a gracious nod and bowed once more. Victory after victory for him tonight. This truly was a magnificent evening if the court’s approving whispers and looks were anything to go by. He had been acknowledged.

“Then if you will excuse me,” he said and pardoned himself. Dowager Mantillon watched him go over the arc of her fan.

The victory came with a price too. The court’s approval meant their attention, and that would make it even harder to slip away for a long time. Crossing the length of the ballroom took longer than he'd anticipated since he was accosted by several people. The gift Command had bestowed upon him in Crestwood came in handy now, and gazes slid over him as he passed after he tired of tripping over another sycophant.

A dart of shadows and feathers in his periphery.

Lavellan turned.

Nothing there.

He narrowed his eyes, scanned his surroundings, before he resumed and left the ballroom.

 _Da’el’ean,_ cooed the Well of Sorrows. _Banal’ras uninas na. Syn ma? [1]_

_“Ahnsul?”_ Lavellan smiled as he stalked through the palace. _“Tel’unvaran.” [2]_

And the Well of Sorrows snickered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many game mechanics in this quest make NO SENSE when applied to writing lmao (wtf was the ballroom bell signalling? And how come you're able to just climb a trellis in full goddamn view how have you not lost 50 points from accessing your inner monkey? Also halla statues as keys are so inefficient) The only halla door that'll appear will be the vault door. That's it.
> 
> Please appreciate my tree puns, it took me so long to come up with them. LAUGH! (Trust Solas to get overzealous with it pfhaha. Someone sober him up please).
> 
> Solas, trying real hard to find any reason to touch Lavellan in some way: there's a, uh, miniscule dot of dust on ur chest oh no here let me just brush my hands over it. Here let me also fix your uniform. And your hair.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translations
> 
> [1]  
>  **Da'el'ean:** Little raven (lit. secret bird - note: el'ean and raag both mean raven but el'ean refers to ravens specifically related to Dirthamen. Different connotations)  
>  **Banal'ras uninas na. Syn ma?:** The shadows missed you. Do you?[⇧]  
> [2]  
>  **Ahnsul?:** What for?  
>  **Tel'unvaran:** (I) never left[⇧]


	43. Sweep aside the pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My godsent friend has kindly agreed to proofread my work because 99% of the time I'm too tired to proofread properly and I go "eh fuck it" which isn't very ideal. Also helps to have an objective eye who hasn't seen it before to determine clarity. Basically, hallelujah.

_smoke and masks where peace is—_

* * *

“Did you see that knife-eared serving girl in the kitchens?”

“Keep talking. I’m starting to believe I was there.”

Lavellan’s lips curled in disdain, smoothing into a smile once he slipped within view of the guards situated outside Gaspard’s Trophy Room. A myriad of ways that he could subtly humiliate or sabotage them flitted past his thoughts but he regretfully placed them aside. He had to work quickly. The night was nearing its conclusion. He had to settle for redirecting them to Commander Cullen with the promise of grand stories of the Inquisition’s feats and silently apologised to Cullen for dumping so many people onto him. Lavellan would make it up to him. Somehow.

He didn’t linger long. Once he’d swiped the orders on Gaspard’s table, he was out with no one the wiser. Lavellan passed through the Guest Wing. Solas was still in his corner, and he raised his wine glass in salute when their gazes met. Lavellan smiled back. Solas had better take care not to overindulge on the alcohol.

Dorian was still in the gardens when Lavellan walked out.

“Please,” begged Dorian at his approach, “no more climbing trellises.”

Lavellan chuckled. “No, don’t worry. I’m relocating you in a bit. I need you to keep an eye on the Guest Wing with Varric because I’m taking Bull and Solas with me.”

“You know, I’m almost jealous of Solas. You drag him with you everywhere.”

“Untrue,” he scoffed.

“You drag him with you everywhere when you aren’t fighting,” he corrected.

He scowled. “Also untrue.”

Dorian shrugged and grinned. “Just as well you do. I _cannot_ stand it when he gives you his sad, smitten glances. It makes me terribly tempted to hit the back of his head.”

“Solas does not give me sad, smitten glances.”

“I assure you, he does. He looks at you as if you’re the sun.”

“You squint at the sun,” Lavellan muttered.

“I said what I said. He squints when you’re terribly bright and giving him grief, and yet he basks in your presence when you are a little gentler. Like a man relishing the warmth of the sun in winter.”

He crossed his arms and looked away, heart twisting. “Dramatic. You should start writing. Maybe you can upstage Varric.”

“Nothing can upstage that dwarf when it comes to words.”

Lavellan grunted. “Speaking of, where is he?” 

Dorian cackled at the topic change and Lavellan’s disgruntlement grew.

“You know,” said Dorian, “he made me take over his post because he heard you were dancing and wished to watch.”

“Varric?”

“No, Solas!” Dorian gestured at himself. “I, being the good friend that I am, graciously accepted. His first reaction when he returned was to grab a glass of wine and finish half of it in one swig.”

Was that― Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

“Varric?” Lavellan asked again, impatience pulling at his tone.

Dorian grinned but at least he obliged and nodded at a surreptitious door by the borders of the garden. “Disappeared through there. Avoiding the Carta, he says.”

“Smart dwarf. Alright, once I take Bull and Solas, move in. When the bell tolls, get in the ballroom as soon as you can. Forget fashionably late.”

“As I said, it is impossible to be fashionably late when my arrival starts the party.”

“You are the wisest of men, Monsieur Pavus.”

Dorian stroked his chin with a sagely hum. “I am, aren’t I?”

Lavellan snorted and left, descended into the lower gardens. They considered this area the seedy area. As seedy as Orlesian nobles could get, anyway. It was also the perfect place for gathering secrets which was likely part of the reason why he found Varric there, besides avoiding the Carta.

A group of nobles had crowded around Varric, badgering him about his novels. His eyes lit in relief at Lavellan’s approach. 

“Excuse me, the Inquisitor and I have important matters to discuss!” said Varric as he dragged Lavellan away to a small fountain. Smart dwarf. The trickling water would drown out their conversation.

“Important matters to discuss,” said Lavellan, smiling. “Such as you missing my dance with the Grand Duchess.”

“Now, now, is that admonishment I hear?”

“Disappointment. How will you chronicle my great adventures and ferocious battles in the sordid Orlesian court if you’re too busy being popular and dodging the Carta?”

The nobles whispered and tittered but Lavellan was a mite too exhausted to divide his attention and eavesdrop. 

“I guess I’ll just have to rely on second-hand account.”

“Don’t bother. Here’s first-hand: I annoyed her.”

Varric laughed. “You know what? That’s in-character. Let me guess, you foiled her devious plans of sabotage and subterfuge with your sly remarks and clever words?”

“Close. I outdanced her.”

“No you didn’t.”

“No I didn’t.” He grinned. “Will you be alright to go up for a few moments? I’m taking Bull and Solas with me and nobody’s keeping an eye on the Guest Wing. Dorian will be there. I can ask Cole if you can’t make it.”

Varric hummed, stared up at the door. “Should be fine now, I think.”

“Alright. You know the drill with the bell.”

“Run like my testicles are about to be set on fire by a slighted Chantry sister.”

“I― Sure. Why not?”

Varric left and Lavellan geared to follow, but he lingered, eyes drawn to the doorway teasing a view of hazy colours and shadows. It was a smoking room and gambling den, if he recalled correctly. He debated the advisability of entering, but his feet made his choice for him as they led him inside. A dull throb pulsed at the base of his skull. He frowned. Another memory? 

He entered the room choked by smoke, enticing aromas mixing. There were tables set up for card games and plush pillows arrayed on the floor around hookahs that the nobles took turns huffing on.

One of them gestured Lavellan over.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” the noble greeted as he neared. “I admit, I am surprised to see you here.”

There were four of them. Three men and a woman, though she was on a chair as her dress was too voluminous.

“Are you here for smoke or chance?” the nobleman asked. Lavellan assessed his mask. House Pierremont’s.

“My entire life is chance, my lord,” said Lavellan with a smile. “But for now, I’m here for a smoke.”

Pierremont gestured at the space beside him and presented Lavellan with the tube and a fresh cloth to wipe it with. He took them as he sat.

“Elderberry,” said Pierremont. “Dash of cinnamon. Tang of citrus. Have you done it before?”

 _What kind of atrocious mixture is that?_ “It’s been a while,” he said instead and took in a short drag, acclimatised himself first. Whatever bullshit flavours Pierremont described was lost on him because Orlesians never prepared it right.

He paused.

Because Orlesians never prepared it right? How would he― The only time he smoked was in Orlais and Tevinter, but the preparations were the same. How else would―

> _Flickers of colour, spokes of light through the hazy fog. I tip my head back and smile as the secrets spill around me._

The smoke burned his lungs and they tightened, unused to it, and he coughed. Pierremont and his friends laughed but not out of scorn. He clapped Lavellan on the back.

“Nothing more invigorating than a spasming lung!”

_Have you tried being chased by a dragon?_

The taste already lingered on his tongue, dissatisfying. Dull. It should be round, flavourful, and the burn should coax, not shock. 

How did he know this?

He passed the pipe to Pierremont without a word and focused instead on eavesdropping. Lavellan mustn’t linger here too long. 

By the time the pipe returned to him, he had two new pieces of information and he drew in what he resolved would be his final drag, the smoke curling in his lungs as he tipped his head back during his exhale. The colourful silks draped along the ceiling glimmered with lights from the stained-glass lanterns. Dots of colour through the smoke.

Prepared wrong or not, the smoke at least elicited the same pleasant gauze of relaxation in his head. It coexisted with the dull headache.

Lavellan sank further into the pillows, eyes on the colours muffled by the grey haze. Pulse, pulse, throbbing in his head, spreading, coating, breathing in smoke―

> _He approaches, menacing yet so out of place in this establishment, and he seats himself beside me, lips twisted in his displeasure. Flames travel along the elaborate crystal threads striating the vaulted ceilings and the flickering of their lights highlight the sharp angles of his face in bursts. Smoke of changing hues wrap around us. Everywhere, colour. Sweetness in the air. Beyond the curtain of smoke, faint outlines of bodies tangle in compromising positions of violence, sex, neither, both, or otherwise. It doesn’t matter. Nothing here matters._
> 
> _Everything here matters._
> 
> _“You shouldn’t have worn your armour,” I say, and take a nonchalant drag, admire the gradient of colours that escape my lips with every word. “It will smell. But I suppose I can give you the spell to take it away if you don’t already know it.”_
> 
> _“I had not taken you for a smoker,” he says, eyeing the hookah and jewels inlaid upon its golden surface._
> 
> _“Not usually. I’m here when things have gone to utter shit.” I offer him the pipe but he refuses. I shrug and take another drag, blow the smoke in his face to annoy him. He stares back, unimpressed. I smile. “Why are you here?”_
> 
> _He picks up the pearls on the tray and crushes them in his hand in a blatant display of boasting, drops them into the goblet of wine. It fizzes._
> 
> _I scowl. “That’s mine.”_
> 
> _He keeps his gaze on me over the rim as he drinks. Ass._
> 
> _“I was looking for you,” he says after his sip. “Dirthamen is asking.”_
> 
> _I study him, his face bare of the mark of devotion. It no longer twists my stomach, seeing him bare-faced, and I no longer know what that says about me. But that’s alright. Tonight isn’t a night for knowing. I am tired of thinking._
> 
> _“I didn’t know you did Dirthamen’s bidding, ma Venuralas, [1]" _ _I say._
> 
> _“Do not,” he snarls, “address me as such. I am no god.”_
> 
> _Always so short-tempered, this one. “Still on about that?”_
> 
> _“I am not, and will never be, an Evanuris.”_
> 
> _“Maybe not,” I concede. “But it’s too late for everyone else.”_
> 
> _“Then I would prefer, in your company, that I am only a man.”_
> 
> _“How about an annoyance?” I ask, but the words are leaden with meaning, conveying a placating apology in tandem with the aura of remorse I give him. The aura accidentally carries some of my exhaustion. I must be very tired indeed if I slip like this._
> 
> _A smile pulls at his lips. “That will do,” he says. Apology accepted, it seems, but his eyes grow troubled._
> 
> _“So then,” I say before he can do something unnecessary like ask me how I am, “did you really drag yourself all the way to a place you so despise just to find me as per Dirthamen’s request? Have you finally discovered your brotherly love?”_
> 
> _“I have never harboured hatred for Dirthamen,” he says._
> 
> _“Yet you never harboured fondness either.” Unintentionally, my eyes track the rest of his bare face._
> 
> _“You may love someone without feeling fond of them.”_
> 
> _I snort. “Yes, I suppose that describes family.”_
> 
> _“Then there is your answer.”_
> 
> _Unthinking, I reach for his bare face, gripped by a mesmerised compulsion, a strange curiosity. My fingers ghost over the areas where Mythals’ tree once branched over his forehead. He freezes beneath my touch but he doesn’t rebuff me, stays still as I continue over the bridge of his nose, following the slope of his cheeks. My knuckles sweep beneath the curve of his eye._
> 
> _“What is it you search for?” he asks but I’m unsure if his voice sounds soft because of the pleasant haze in my system or if it truly is._
> 
> _“Your patience.”_
> 
> _“You have a talent for exhausting mine.”_
> 
> _“Not much to exhaust.”_
> 
> _I mean to draw my hand back but it lingers. The heat of his breaths fan over the skin of my wrist._
> 
> _“Ras,” he murmurs, “what are you doing?”_
> 
> _“Observing,” I whisper, tracing the hard line of his jaw, lightly gripping his chin and tilting his head so he can meet my gaze. The golden rings in his hair clink at the sudden movement. “Why are you really here?”_
> 
> _He stares. No aura from him so I can’t discern his thoughts or emotions. He’s hidden it._
> 
> _“You know that makes me more suspicious,” I say._
> 
> _“It serves its function. Cast what suspicions you may have. That does not make it any less hidden.”_
> 
> _I scrutinise him but say nothing. Once more, I offer the pipe._
> 
> _“Try it,” I say._
> 
> _“No, thank you. I do not care for the burning in my lungs, no matter how enticing the flavour and aroma.”_
> 
> _“So you’d prefer the flavour without the burn. Is that a metaphor?”_
> 
> _He smiles. “No, but if you wish, you may continue believing me to be an accidental literary master.”_
> 
> _“Well you have to be good at_ something _, I suppose,” I tease, and he sighs. I roll the pipe between my fingers in contemplation. “Well then, if it’s flavour without the burn, I think I can oblige.”_
> 
> _He gives me a curious look and I hum, pleased. Curiosity fits his face far better than cold and careful neutrality. I take a deep drag from the pipe and hold the smoke in my mouth, flavours bursting on my tongue, and press my thumb to his bottom lip to gently pry open his mouth. He doesn’t fight it. Merely watches in curious anticipation._
> 
> _I lean closer, tilt my head and hover my lips over his, close but not touching, and I open my mouth. Let the smoke pour from mine into his. It curls between us, red to gold to emerald._
> 
> _Once the smoke dissipates, I move back._
> 
> _He stays quiet, lips still parted as he watches the rest of the smoke drift away. I observe his reaction. He closes his eyes._
> 
> _“You’ve been leading them to me,” he finally says._
> 
> _“Whom?” I ask, though I already know._
> 
> _A slow smile spreads across his lips. He’s been smiling a lot, as if it fights to remain or return when he assumes another expression. “The reports are the same. Some say an elf who is red of hair led them to the sanctuary. Others say he is battle-worn and dark-skinned, or curly-haired and freckled, or kindly and long-faced.” His eyes open and he takes the pipe from my fingers, though his gaze remains on me. “Yet two things remain constant: one, they always bore Dirthamen’s vallaslin. Two―” he tilts his head― “they were all golden-eyed.”_
> 
> _I smile back but say nothing, though that is answer enough on its own. He takes a drag and I raise a brow._
> 
> _His fingers curl around my neck and he pulls me in._
> 
> _I taste sweet smoke and Rebellion._

Lavellan opened his eyes, hadn’t realised they'd closed, the chatter around him softened by the relaxation. The pipe was back in Pierremont’s hand so it must have circulated another time. He stood in what he hoped was a composed manner and excused himself with a pleasant smile before he left. Took in greedy breaths of fresh air outside.

What was that? 

Lavellan couldn’t let anybody see him falter so he returned to the upper garden, hid himself in a clandestine corner, and braced himself against the wall. He covered his face with his shaking hand. What was that? What―

What had happened?

Did Solas forget him?

Lavellan rubbed a hand down his face and parsed through the noise of his emotional turmoil, uprooting the facts and the information. There were still several unknowns and he didn’t have the full story. That could have just been one instance. A passing dalliance. Curiosity. It was an empire of decadence and indulgence after all.

_But it wasn’t just decadence, was it?_

His heart ached. Lavellan wasn’t certain why anymore. He pressed his trembling hand to his chest. It didn’t matter. It was fine. That was then, this was now. All he knew was that he had helped ferry the slaves to Fen’Harel’s sanctuary.

In both of his past lives, he had ferried the slaves to the Dread Wolf.

In both of his past lives, he had led them to false hope and doom.

The emotions and inherent knowledge he gained from the memory overlapped with his current, screaming thoughts. He closed his hand over his ears, the cold metal of his ear cuffs biting into his sweating palms. Smelled the smoke on him. Tasted the arid, flat, spiking flavours from the smoke turning stale at the back of his tongue.

A whisper of wind, the curl of shadows, and Cole was there in front of him.

Lavellan glanced up. Cole’s eyes widened as their gazes met and he wordlessly pulled Lavellan close and wrapped his arms around him. The concept of a hug eluded Cole, but apparently that was what Lavellan needed right now so he attempted. It was a good attempt. Cole’s hug was warm and safe. 

“Solas says the Dalish need touch,” said Cole. “You never ask. I never knew. You never think of it.”

“I’m a little busy,” Lavellan mumbled into his coat. 

“But you need it. Yearning, buried beneath the broken thoughts. Oh,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t hear it. The hurt was too loud. And now it’s louder again. It’s okay.”

Lavellan scrunched his eyes shut. There was too much information in his head and his exhausted mind could only sort through so many so fast.

“He doesn’t remember,” Lavellan said, loathed how feeble he sounded. This was supposed to be his night. The shadows and light were his to command tonight, he was at his best tonight, victory after victory through wit and charm and yet― He was better than this. Should be better than this. Why was it always Solas who always unbalanced him? One person shouldn’t have this much weight in another’s life.

“But it’s not just one though,” said Cole. “We all have weight. The Iron Bull chose to stay and you saw that things could change. You helped me move forward instead of left or right and you saw there were other paths. Cassandra stayed no matter what and you saw that true loyalty can exist without strings.” Lavellan clutched at Cole’s coat. “And Solas always cares. Too much, sometimes. Traps and tempts and turns him away from his duty but it cannot be, cannot be. Fool. Such an unwise fool.”

Lavellan laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel any better.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, I― Thank you for trying.”

“You need to feel it,” said Cole. “Untangle and unknot the unknown until you see what it should be. It sounds very hard.” He hugged Lavellan tighter. “I’ll help.”

Lavellan’s trembling eased and he spied blue lights dancing in his periphery. Once his trembling ceased, Cole stepped back, eyes still wide with tentative curiosity.

“Can you think?” he asked. “I can’t take the hurt, but I can take the screaming. Still the surface of the sea so you can see the shells in the sand.”

His thoughts had indeed calmed, better suited for objective reasoning. Lavellan smiled. 

“That was a lot of sibilance, Cole. Do spirits like alliteration that much?”

Cole blinked, brightened somewhat. “It’s like singing. We sing when we do it. You like it when we do it.”

“I do.” He took a deep, steadying breath and reached for the stone in his pocket, relaxed further. “Are we being watched?”

“Yes, but I’ll make them forget.”

“Thank you.” Last thing he needed were the Orlesians clambering over his moment of weakness like weevils on hard tack.

“He didn’t mean to forget,” said Cole. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, eyes glazing, gaze darkening. “But it made him.”

Lavellan stared. “What?”

Cole blinked, dazed. 

“Sorry,” he said. “You’re both too deep. I go too far sometimes and the air starts running out.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Try not to push yourself.” Still, what did it mean? Did an outside influence meddle? If so, why? What for? Was it tied to Solas’ rebellion? He shook his head. No, he had to leave those for later. Tonight, he had other concerns.

“Can I fight with you?” asked Cole.

“Thank you for the offer but I need you in the ballroom in case Florianne tries something and I can’t stop her in time.”

Cole hesitated and Lavellan recognised the scrunch of his brows and the wringing of his fingers as worry. He smiled, affection warm in his chest as it displaced the turmoil.

“It’s alright, Cole,” he reassured. I’ll be alright. I can handle it, thanks to you.”

“If you start hurting again and I can’t answer, ask Solas for help. He won’t ask if you tell him not to.”

“If he’s the one who caused the hurt?”

“Make him say sorry,” he said though it sounded a little like a warning and Lavellan chuckled.

“His apologies never make me feel better,” said Lavellan. “But it _is_ vindicating to see him asking for forgiveness sometimes.”

Cole eyed him. “No, it’s not. You think that’s how it should feel but it’s not.”

“Let me lie to myself for a little longer,” he sighed. 

Movement caught his attention and when he turned, an elven servant was there, offering a tray of finger treats. She had discerned them so easily in the shadows. He supposed one had to be familiar with the shadows when serving in Orlais.

Lavellan smiled. “What have you got there?” he asked.

“Treats, Inquisitor Lavellan,” said the servant demurely. “They have been prepared thoroughly as per your request. We have done our best to cater.” The Royal Wing was open.

“I appreciate it,” he said and took a treat for show. It was a rounded biscuit with filling in the middle. “Thank you for your hard work.”

The servant bowed and left. Lavellan bit into the biscuit, expected it to crumble or crunch, but it gave beneath his teeth. Soft. Somewhat airy. A lovely burst of sweetness on his tongue which removed the disgusting remnants of the smoke’s aftertaste.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” said Cole. “Your lungs don’t like it. Why do you put it there?”

Lavellan ate the last of the treat and made a note to ask about its name later.

“Recreation,” he answered.

“But… it hurts?”

“Yeah, we’re stupid like that. We chase sensations.”

“Oh,” said Cole in understanding. “But you still shouldn’t do it.”

Lavellan laughed. “They don’t make it right anymore so yes, I’ll refrain.”

He frowned. “Even if they make it right.”

“Alright,” Lavellan agreed fondly. “Alright.”

* * *

He wrapped his hands around his ironbark bow, felt a little more put together. Solas closed the compartment behind the wall and returned the obnoxious painting back over it. Behind them, Bull gave the greatsword a few swings and Blackwall took the shield hanging on the wall.

“You were smoking,” said Solas. Lavellan tied his hair back. 

“Sordid secrets in seedy joints, you know how it is. Sorry, do I smell?”

“Faintly. Please refrain from doing it often.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Cole’s already expressed his worry and I do so hate disappointing him. He gives you that look.”

Solas chuckled. “Indeed.”

“Not fond of smoking?”

“No,” he said. “The burn is unpleasant and any enticing flavours are lost on me.”

A scream cut their conversation short as it sliced through the stagnant atmosphere. Lavellan sprinted towards the sound, kicked open the door into one of the bedrooms and startled the Harlequin standing over an elven servant. 

Lavellan gave them no time to react. He planted his foot into the Harlequin’s gut and kicked them out the window.

“Goodnight,” he said and closed the windows with finality.

Bull threw his head back and laughed while Solas sighed. Lavellan helped the elven servant up.

“Sorry to push your dance partner out the window,” he said.

She chuckled nervously as he pulled her up. “I don’t mind,” she replied. She was one of Briala’s agents, and she claimed Briala sent here to die since she was one of the few to know the truth of Briala’s past as Celene’s handmaiden and spymaster. Lavellan frowned. A little something to discuss with Briala later. He sent the servant to Cullen for protection. 

Man, Cullen was going to wring his neck later.

“Don’t tell me all of this fighting is from a lover’s quarrel,” grunted Bull.

“No,” said Lavellan. “The issues weren’t born from the slight between them. Other way around.” It must be tiring for Briala, having your actions connect back to your romantic connection. Others had claimed the same during his efforts against Solas. That it was all just a convoluted and extreme lover’s quarrel. Cassandra had to physically hold him back and drag him away before Lavellan made a scene and by the gods had he been ready to make a scene.

“But she used to work for the Empress,” said Bull. “It’ll still look suspicious to the others and she knows it. That’s why she sent that girl to die.”

“Yeah, I’ll have a talk with her about it later. But going back to her past as a servant, did we all not follow orders once out of loyalty and later found out we were working for assholes or that there was an inherent flaw in the system we’ve served or that the actions you did under service was despicable or all of the above?”

Every single person in this room grimaced or turned their head away in shame. Even Lavellan.

“There we go,” murmured Lavellan. “I can’t fault her for realising she’s dedicated herself to a rotting empire under the mistaken belief that doing so helped her people, and now wants to rebel.”

An ancient part of him settled after being given voice, and Lavellan stood still, strangely liberated after the admission. An admission. It _was_ an admission, wasn’t it?

Yet there still lingered that unshakeable love and devotion for the god with the violet eyes. 

Another shift of shadows in the corner of his vision but Lavellan already learned it wasn’t worth looking and searching for its source. He would always find nothing.

“She must take care,” said Solas, unable to meet Lavellan’s gaze. “Ensure her well-meaning actions do not cause further damage to her people.” His sorrow shimmered beyond reach yet it was warm and alive beneath Lavellan’s hands.

“That’s true,” Lavellan murmured. Did Solas see the similarities between him and Briala? Lavellan meant to say more, maybe words of comfort or hope, but he was at a loss too so he continued instead.

There was another cry for help behind one of the doors. Lavellan picked the lock, this time without Sera bumping him out of the way, and opened it to Empress Celene’s private quarters. 

“Does the literal empress of Orlais need better locks or are you just very good?” asked Blackwall.

Lavellan smiled and shrugged like a little shit.

They ascended the short steps to the ornate bed. The captain of Gaspard’s guard stared at them, naked and tied-up. 

Bull guffawed. “Classic,” he wheezed.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” the captain pled. “Honestly, I would prefer it if it were what it looked like. The Empress led me to believe I would be… rewarded for betraying the Grand Duke.” And so he relayed his grand tale of woe and betrayal and Lavellan’s smile grew. Blackwall chortled in his corner. Solas looked on, unmoved, but his lips quirked every now and again.

“Don’t tell Gaspard!” begged the captain.

Well no shit this man got nowhere. Empress Celene had no preference for swords.

“You know, Mercy,” said Bull, “this is good blackmail for the Empress.”

Lavellan pursed his lips. Solas glanced at him. What use was blackmail against a dead person?

“I think I’ll leave him here,” said Lavellan.

“ _What_?” asked the captain. “You can’t do that!”

And just to prove that yes, he could, Lavellan walked away.

“You piece of shit!” cried the captain.

_Gather all your pieces, whether you’ll use them or not._

Lavellan paused, turned the thought over. It came from a ruthless part, an ancient part, awakened by tonight’s intrigues. Perhaps this was why he enjoyed court. This was his domain. Where flux was encouraged, where flux was the natural state, the natural order. 

“Inquisitor?” asked Solas.

He spun on his heel and returned to the glaring captain. An impressive look for somebody trussed up like poultry.

“Here’s the deal,” said Lavellan. “I free you, but you keep your mouth shut unless I ask you to testify against Celene.” His eyes widened. Either at the audacity of Lavellan’s request or his referring to the Empress by name. “Get even the smallest thought of disobeying me and I assure you, your name and future will be ruined come morning.”

“I’ll do anything, I swear.”

Lavellan smiled sweetly. “I know.” He stepped back. “Bull, can you undo the binds please?”

Bull grinned. “No experience with ropes?”

“Not these kinds,” he laughed.

Once the captain was free, Lavellan directed him towards ― surprise, surprise ― Commander Cullen. Forget Corypheus. Cullen would murder Lavellan himself for dumping so many people onto him and worsening his headache.

They continued through the rest of the Royal Wing and entered areas under renovation, faint silhouettes of scaffoldings and sheets looming in the dim room. Lavellan lit the way with the Anchor, more for his non-elven companions’ sakes since their eyesight wasn’t as good in the dark. 

“I didn’t know you could do that,” said Blackwall.

Lavellan stopped. Oh, shit.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, voice commendably even. Solas narrowed his eyes. “Well, I can. I’m really not sure why you’re surprised about me using it as a portable torch when I can stab holes in the Veil with it and paralyse enemies.”

Solas scowled. Probably didn’t appreciate the mark imparted by his oh so powerful foci being referred to as a portable torch.

“That’s… a fair point,” said Blackwall. 

“That’s pretty _handy,_ ” Bull said and Lavellan sniggered.

“Nice.”

Lavellan led them, hand held high, but it flared once they stopped in front of a set of doors. A rift. Wonderful. 

“You painted Orlesian assholes!” came the cry behind the door. “I’ll butcher you like the pigs you are when I get out of this!”

“I feel a rift,” said Lavellan and they drew their weapons. “Get ready.” 

He shouldered the door open and faced Florianne’s expected ambush in the gardens. Lavellan stared unfazed at the line of arrows aimed at him, at the emerald rift’s rippling rip in space. Tied to a post was Gaspard’s mercenary captain struggling against his bindings.

“Inquisitor, what a pleasure,” greeted Florianne, right on time. She looked down from her ledge with a smile, moonlight glinting off her mask. “I wasn’t certain you’d attend.”

“An ambush,” he drawled. “How riveting.”

“You flatter me,” she said with a delicate, practiced laugh. “I hope you know the trouble I went through just to arrange this specially for you. You were such a challenge to read. I wasn’t sure if you’ve taken my bait.”

“And you were a light read on a sunny summer’s day,” he returned. She was too far for him to make out her expression.

“Yet here you are anyway.”

“I thought I’d come see the surprise you’ve prepared for me. Such a poor guest I would be if I didn’t come to critique it. I give a five for originality. Ten for effort.” He smiled. “Out of twenty.”

“My, Inquisitor, that is certainly very generous of you. Such a shame you won’t be around to see the other surprises I have in store for tonight. After all, Corypheus wishes the Empress dead tonight and I would so hate to disappoint him.”

“He should be used to it. That poor thing needs to be humbled every now and again.”

“You are the poor thing,” she sighed. “And so deluded.”

“If I’m so deluded, clear a little something up for me. Why work with Corypheus? You’re royalty. You exercise so much influence over the empire already.”

“The empire? Inquisitor, Corypheus will give me the _world,_ ” she said and spread her arms. “A world ruled by an attentive god and not an absent one. I will rule Thedas in his name.”

More grand promises. And the greed which made them so susceptible to such promises.

“You are the deluded one then, Grand Duchess,” he said. “As if you don’t understand you’re being played by the very same mechanism you employ. Come now, we’re at odds but I like to think you’re at least smarter than this.”

“I am, Inquisitor. I play the long game.” She turned to leave. “In their darkest dreams, nobody would have expected me to assassinate Celene myself. All I need to do is keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike. Enjoy the rest of the party, Inquisitor.” She addressed a Venatori and said, “Cut off his marked hand once you’re done. It will make a fine gift for Corypheus.”

_Touch it and die._

A Venatori shot an arrow and Lavellan lunged out of the way, came out into a roll and opened the rift. The demons poured out and the true shitshow began.

He shot at the Venatori archers before they could release their arrows and left the demons to Bull and Blackwall. Solas’ barrier shimmered to life around him. Just in time. It deflected an arrow from an unexpected source, his attacker hiding behind a column before Lavellan could retaliate.

Solas set whoever it was aflame regardless.

Lavellan shot the Venatori who crept up behind Solas as thanks.

Once they eliminated the last of the demons and Venatori, Lavellan closed the rift and offered the incensed mercenary captain a job within the Inquisition. 

Time was ticking.

They hurried through the palace and its unnecessary corridors and gods, would it kill Orlesians to be _practical?_ He kicked open a door into a chapel where they encountered more Venatori. 

They had to hurry. There was but a short window of time to work with. He needed enough to let Florianne strike but not so much that she could change the party theme to red.

Lavellan ran out of arrows.

Oh.

A Venatori threw him against a pew and Lavellan grunted on impact, bow clattering to the floor, quiver digging into his back. Poncy Orlesians could afford gilded walls but couldn’t even afford impact-friendly pews? Or at least pews with cushions? Go on and pray to your absent god with your sore and aching asses, pissants.

Blackwall leapt to the rescue. Bashed his shield against the Venatori before they could strike Lavellan and felled them with a swift slash. He helped Lavellan out and patted him on the back with a chuckle.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Lavellan grimaced and clutched at his ribs. “Something’s going to bruise and I think my stomach and liver swapped positions but other than that―”

Bull threw the last Venatori against a pew and it shattered from the force of his throw. 

“Better than that guy,” said Lavellan and retrieved his bow. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

They exited the chapel into an empty part of the palace, their footsteps echoing. They were all a mess. Blackwall’s neat beard braid and tied hair had come undone while Bull had a rip in his coat. Solas lost the hat. All of them broke the _no blood on the uniform_ rule.

“Where the fuck are we?” asked Bull. “Everything looks the same.”

“I know. It’s like it’d kill them to use something other than marble,” Lavellan muttered.

“Inquisitor,” someone called. Lavellan turned his head and found Cap in one of the corridors. “This way!” 

They followed Cap through the confusing hallways.

“How’d you know to find us?” Lavellan asked.

“Somebody heard fighting and we figured you might be in trouble,” they said.

“Where’s Florianne?”

“She entered the ballroom and she’s waiting for the Empress’ address.”

Music from the orchestra drifted faintly in the air. His heart jumped in relief.

“How long before the Empress’ address?” he asked.

“Few more minutes.” They turned a sharp corner. “This way’s faster.” Cap led them down a set of stairs into a large, open room. The orchestra’s music was louder now. A blue door awaited at the end of the room. Cap unlocked it with a key and the five of them burst into the ballroom.

The guards on either side of the door jolted and a few nobles within the vicinity ogled.

“At ease,” he told the guards. Commander Cullen spotted them and rushed towards Lavellan, eyes wide at their appearance. Leliana and Josephine soon followed.

“Goodness, Inquisitor, what happened?” asked Josephine.

Lavellan met Florianne’s gaze across the ballroom, Gaspard beside her, though he was unaware of Lavellan’s abrupt entrance. Florianne fidgeted. The first crack in her composure. This was why you should always stay to see the job get done.

Florianne and Gaspard began the walk across the ballroom to be received by Empress Celene.

How would Florianne strike? Likely while standing beside Celene, and knowing Florianne’s propensity for the dramatic, it would be during Celene’s speech.

“Inquisitor?” asked Leliana, eyes glinting as she watched him. “Are we continuing with the plan?”

Florianne crossed the ballroom and he opened his mouth to say yes, but the words stuck in his throat. He fell quiet. 

Briala stood in a furtive corner while the nobility gathered around the balustrades to watch, some flooding onto the dance floor as Gaspard and Florianne progressed across it.

That was the plan, wasn’t it? Let Gaspard take the throne, leash him to Briala. Lavellan could do it. He had everything in place. One move and it was checkmate ― his win. All the pieces were ready, all the plans, the blackmail required.

And yet.

His hands clenched at his sides as Florianne neared the front of the dance floor. The chatter around him dulled. His heartbeat echoed in his ears.

Topple the King, move the Knight, position his Queen.

But this wasn’t chess.

His eyes widened and an unshakeable chill enclosed around his ankles, wrist, neck.

“Inquisitor?”

Lavellan’s gaze turned frantic as it darted from Florianne, to the Empress, and back. Then at his advisors’ waiting looks. His throat seized. Was this… right? Was he right? This was politics. This was how politics worked and this was the ugly truth of it and Celene had to die for his plans to work. Orlais required stability so Corypheus couldn’t take advantage of the chaos. They would be stabilised with or without her, and this would give him the early foundations he needed to give the elves more power in Orlais.

To eventually give them a home.

Celene had to die.

Celene had to…

Why?

Now was not the time for his ideals―

Leliana stared at him. Solas was an overwhelming presence behind him. He shot Leliana an uncertain and agitated look and her gaze softened, turned meaningful as she surreptitiously reached into her coat and let the carved nightingale peek over the fabric. Laurel leaves in its claws.

_“This is exactly the time for ideals.”_

Florianne reached the front and Briala descended to join them. They bowed.

Lavellan closed his eyes, resigned.

He swept his arm across the chessboard and let the pieces fall to the floor.

“I hate myself,” he muttered and untied his hair, hurriedly fixed it, snapped his coat and straightened it into something presentable, and dashed forward before he could think about it.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine called out.

Lavellan descended onto the dance floor, put his figurative mask in place, and opened his arms in a theatrical display as he called out, “We owe the court one last show, Your Grace.”

The nobility gasped at the interruption. Empress Celene tilted her head but said nothing. After all, she, too, enjoyed a good show, and Lavellan had one they could all lap up. He gathered the strings he had loosely wrapped around the court tonight.

Pulled.

Florianne turned, posture tense. “Inquisitor,” she greeted as he sauntered towards her, played up his confidence and swagger even if his head screamed that this was not part of the plan, that he threw it all away. That everything he worked hard for tonight would come crumbling down.

And that he would have become what he never wanted to be.

“Come now, why the frown? This is your party,” he said. “Smile, Your Grace. Every eye is upon us. You wouldn’t want them to see that you’ve lost control, would you?” He ascended the steps and she backed away as Briala and Gaspard pulled back.

“Who wouldn’t be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?” she asked with a forced, demure laugh.

“I don’t know, I was left pretty heartbroken when you abruptly cut our lovely garden conversation short,” he said and paced in circles around her. “Remember? The one where your archers failed to kill me?”

Gasps. Had he not acquired this influence tonight, his words would have meant nothing. At least he knew how to make them eat out of his hands. He hadn’t fucked that up at least.

“Your favour is such a fickle thing to keep. Even for your own family. Framing Gaspard for the murder of a Council of Heralds emissary?” He reached into his pocket and unsheathed the Chalons dagger, raised it high for the court to see. “My Lords and Ladies, is this not the Chalons crest and dagger?” He threw it onto the dance floor and one picked it up, turned it over.

“It is true!” they cried and handed it to the nearest noble. Gaspard and Florianne’s uncle stepped forward. 

“Give me that!” he snapped and examined it. “No… it is true. This dagger can only be retrieved from our personal armoury.” He glanced up at Florianne. “What have you done?”

“That is right,” said another noble. “Dominique has been absent the whole night. He has been murdered!”

The nobles clamoured over the dagger and the wave of whispers became outcries.

Florianne’s composure steadily broke and Gaspard reeled, rage and disbelief in his eyes. Lavellan clasped his hands behind his back, tilted his head and let the light catch on his ear cuffs.

“Your own family?” he asked and shook his head. There was no need to raise his voice. The nobility hushed at the sound, eager for scraps of more spectacle, more scandals and sordid truths. Gluttonous sharks on the scent of blood. “Such an ambitious plan ― all your enemies under one roof at your behest.”

There was nothing she could say, not with their uncle’s confirmation of the dagger. Any floundering attempts to lie would be sniffed out immediately and she would be worse off for it.

She took another step back, turned to Gaspard, rattled. Her last defence.

“Gaspard? You cannot believe this! I would―”

Gaspard scoffed at her and turned away. Briala followed, shot Lavellan a questioning look over her shoulder.

 _“What are you up to?”_ it seemed to ask.

Lavellan tipped his head. _“We’ll see.”_ No room for doubts now because the court would sense him falter. He could falter and scream at himself later in private.

“Gaspard?” Florianne asked, retreated as Orlesian guards advanced towards her. No way out.

“You lost the fight ages ago, Your Grace,” he said and stepped aside to let the guards through. “You’re just the last to find out.”

Florianne sobbed as the guards pulled her up and away. Lavellan glanced up at Celene.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I think we should speak in private,” he said. “Elsewhere.”

 _Now what, asshole?_ his thoughts screamed.

Celene nodded and turned with a meaningful tilt of her head. Lavellan took a deep breath and followed.

Well, his plans were shot to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a loaded chapter. Mind you, I WAS going to originally let Lavellan stick to the plan but then it hit me that this goes a little against how I've characterised Lavellan and I was like shit shit revISE. This also ties in better with the whole "don't dance to Orlais' tune" because (get ready for my ramble because I overthink everything) while you could say that he played Orlais by putting an elf in power, that still means he succumbs to the political machinations of Orlais' court in order to do it. It's an illusion of playing Orlais but really, he danced to Orlais' tune all along. 
> 
> Injecting morals into an environment rife with political manipulation is incredibly difficult, possibly self-destructive, nigh hopeless, and generally a Terrible Idea. Court is where morals go to die. Will Lavellan just end up destroying himself by steadfastly adhering to his morals? Is there a point fighting? Is that all there is? Get swallowed or get destroyed? 
> 
> Thinking about ethics is probably not what you thought you were getting into with this fic I'm terribly sorry haha. I think it's just intriguing. Also, I'm extra. But hey, you can also just sit back and enjoy the ride and be here for the disastrous yearning. That is also absolutely valid hahaha.
> 
> Nov, shut up lmao
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ma Venuralas:** My Deity - how the Evanuris are addressed.[⇧]


	44. The price of hope

_broken mirrors, broken hearts—_

* * *

“Your sister attempted regicide in front of the whole court,” said Briala as they stepped out onto the balcony but Lavellan zoned out of the bickering, his thoughts scrambling for a way to salvage this mess. Celene was alive. Gaspard couldn’t have the throne. 

Briala shot him a look at his silence. He had promised her a throne. Now what?

The elven locket weighed heavily in his pocket once more.

“Enough,” Celene snapped. “We will not bicker while Tevinter plots against our nation! For the safety of the empire, we will have answers.” She glanced at Lavellan for said answers. He stalled by explaining Florianne and Corypheus’ plans.

He refused to reunite Celene and Briala, not after the atrocities Celene had done. A truce between them then? No, that would fall apart and become a political migraine later. He wanted to pull his hair out.

_Idiot!_

“And,” Lavellan said, “I managed to uncover this plot thanks to Briala.”

Celene’s gaze flicked towards him, startled. “You were working together?”

“Of course,” said Briala, eyeing him. He couldn’t tell if she was angry. He had no idea what he was doing.

Gaspard and Celene couldn’t coexist. Gaspard had to go.

How was that any different? One life for another? Was there no avoiding death?

“Thanks to her help, Gaspard’s mercenary captain will testify that he hired men to infiltrate the palace,” said Lavellan, and laid out all the blackmail he’d acquired, making sure to credit Briala for each one. Well, it was no lie. It was thanks to her and her agents that he could get around the palace in the first place.

Gaspard’s anger mounted with each accusation.

Celene would execute Gaspard for treason, no doubt. Lavellan could meddle, implore that Gaspard be spared.

No, that wasn’t ideal either. That would still provide instability and Gaspard knew that there was history between Celene and Briala, which would put the Empress on edge. If Gaspard stayed, Briala couldn’t gain any footholds. If Gaspard lived, that was one enemy lurking around with a raging hatred for elves.

Damn it, fool. He had cornered himself.

“In light of overwhelming evidence, cousin,” said Celene, “we have no choice but to declare you an enemy of the empire. You are hereby sentenced to death.”

Gaspard sneered as the guards seized him.

“You would let the rabbits run amok the empire, Celene?” he asked.

This was what Lavellan was talking about. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Gaspard, but the ‘rabbits’ are citizens of Orlais,” he said. “The fact that you see them as separate proves you aren’t fit to be leader. Thank you for the invitation though. I hope you aren’t too torn that I foiled your plans with the uniform.”

“And so you finally show your true colours, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

“I’ve shown my true colours from the very beginning. It’s black.” He held Gaspard’s hateful glare as the guards dragged him away. “And I look good in it.”

Celene sighed once Gaspard was gone, a sound so soft he almost missed it, and her shoulders relaxed minutely. Orlais was solely hers once more.

Lavellan shared a look with Briala.

“One other matter,” he said and finally relieved his pocket of the elven locket’s weight. He dangled it from his fingers. The effect was instantaneous. Celene tensed, Briala sucked in a breath. “Does this look familiar to either of you?”

“That is— How did you come to find this?” asked Celene.

“Venatori snooping about your old vault.”

“You kept it?” Briala murmured, eyes wide, and Lavellan scowled.

“Stop,” he said and swung the locket’s pendant into his palms, closed his hand around it. He gave Celene a solemn look. “Your Imperial Majesty, don’t forget that you’re alive and you have your precious empire thanks to the Inquisition’s efforts.”

She pressed her lips. “We will not forget. We are indebted to you. Name your price, Inquisitor, and we shall provide it.”

He held up two fingers. “You owe two things. One to us—” he nodded at Briala—“and one to your empire. What you owe to the empire is your efforts to help stop Corypheus because he threatens the whole of Thedas. This is just a natural obligation at this point.”

“And the other?” she asked, terse.

“Grant Briala the title of Marquise of the Dales,” he said.

Her face stayed carefully neutral. “We see,” she said. “That will be met with opposition.”

“You can pin it on me if the nobles harangue you,” he said. “Or would you really deny me this simple request?”

Briala laughed sharply. “Inquisitor, that is no simple request. Celene would never grant that title to an elf,” she spat.

Hurt glimmered beneath Celene’s eyes at the undercurrent of spite in Briala’s tone.

“What you did to Briala is unforgivable,” he said. “To my people, even more so.”

“You are Dalish,” remarked Celene.

“I’m an elf,” he fired back.

“This will end in bloodshed.”

Briala scoffed. “Please, Celene, I know how to navigate court.”

“Fact is,” said Lavellan, “Briala’s efforts helped you too.” His eyes turned steely. “And you were no saint tonight either. I would rather not blackmail the Empress of Orlais, but know that I can, and I will if pushed.”

Celene eyed him and they stayed in tense silence. Lavellan kept his gaze steady.

“You did not just come here to stop Corypheus,” she noted.

He stayed quiet.

She smiled faintly. “Then your part in the Game will not end tonight, Inquisitor.”

“No,” he agreed.

“We may meet again. Will we find you opposing us at the end of the board?”

“This is not chess.”

Celene regarded him. “No,” she agreed as well and transferred her look to Briala. “And you?”

“I have long been a player in your game, Celene,” she said. “Don’t cry because I started one of my own.”

She smiled, but it was hollow and tired. The crown and throne exacted its price, and Celene had been bearing it for long. Despicable as she could be, he respected her tenacity at least.

“We will heed your request,” she said, “but we trust that you are both prepared for the consequences.”

Briala crossed her arms in defiance. Lavellan matched the grim look Celene gave him and they momentarily sized one another up. A possible future opponent.

“You will haunt my dreams, Inquisitor,” said Celene. “Do I have a place in yours?” 

“Apologies,” he said, not at all apologetic, “but my dreams are haunted by a wolf, not an empress.”

She made no reply to the cryptic answer but Briala frowned slightly. Celene tipped her head towards the ballroom where they were quickly immersed back into the uncertain and fraught atmosphere.

“Nevertheless, thank you for your efforts tonight, Inquisitor,” said Celene. “Come stand with us. We must deliver the good news to the nobility.”

Celene addressed the nobles while Briala and Lavellan stood slightly back during her speech.

“Let the cornerstone of change be laid,” announced Celene as she gestured Briala forward. “We introduce the newest member of our court: Marquise Briala of the Dales.”

Briala delivered a speech that painted a unified force of humans and elves, which pandered to the idealistic and triumphant atmosphere of the evening. Lavellan clenched his hands behind his back. Was this really the best he could do? Was this the next best course? The loss of Gaspard’s life still twisted his stomach.

Had there ever been a better course to take?

“Inquisitor, will you address the court?” asked Celene.

He’d rather not, but alas. He gave a rallying speech, made his expression and voice convincing even if he felt like garbage inside.

“But that is tomorrow,” said Celene. “Tonight, we celebrate! Let the festivities commence!”

The ballroom cheered. The three of them stepped back and Celene parted with a final nod, her gaze lingering on Briala, but they said nothing more to one another.

“If you will excuse us,” said Celene. “This night has been long and we wish to retire for the evening. We will speak again in the morning.

Lavellan bowed. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

Celene left, escorted by two guards. Lavellan waited for a few seconds before he gestured one of the Inquisition scouts over.

They saluted. “Worship?”

He nodded at Celene. “Make sure she makes it to her bedroom without being assassinated.”

“Yes, Your Worship.”

“Be subtle.”

They grinned. “I’m always subtle, Your Worship.”

He smiled back. “Go on.”

Briala moved to leave as well but he cleared his throat meaningfully and nodded at a quiet corner.

“A word?” he asked.

“Conversing in a shadowy corner? What _will_ the nobility say?”

“Nothing they haven’t already started saying,” he snorted as they moved to said shadowy corner, half-obscured by a ridiculously sized potted plant. Lavellan assessed Briala’s body language. Tense. “Are you angry?”

“Whatever for?”

“I promised you a throne.”

She crossed her arms, lips pursing. “Admittedly, I did think you had backpedalled on your promises, but you tried very hard to pin your successes on me.”

“It’s true,” he said.

“I suspect you would have still fared alright with or without our meddling.” She frowned. “What price are you after?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You must want something in return for the power you granted me,” she said. “It may not be the throne, but it is still significant.”

“I want you to help the elves of Orlais. That’s it.”

Her frown deepened. “That can’t be all of it.”

“I may need your help later, when this mess with Corypheus ends.”

“When,” she repeated. “You seem confident.”

Lavellan smiled and shrugged. “I am what they call _idiotically optimistic_.”

She laughed, at least. “That you are, but alright, Inquisitor. I have a standing debt, then.” Her expression turned troubled. “But Celene is right about one thing: my title will come with opposition. Perhaps later rather than sooner, but it’s still inevitable.”

“Nothing lasts,” he said, “but do what you can with this time while the Inquisition is at its prime and able to provide you support. By the end of the year, maybe two, you need to be able to fly on your own.”

“Inquisitor, I will fly in half that time.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Very good, Marquise.”

“Marquise Briala. Doesn’t quite roll on the tongue, does it?”

“Ah, I had no idea that was a concern,” said Lavellan. They shared a chuckle before falling silent.

He grew acutely aware of the elven locket in his pocket once more. 

Lavellan frowned, before he reached into his pocket and retrieved the locket, the glint of it catching Briala’s eye. He offered it. She took it gingerly as if it would combust and scorch her palm, her thumb tracing the edges of it. 

“It’s not my place to meddle,” he said. “Do with it as you will. Deal with Celene however you see fit. Just remember that she’s an Empress and a survivor before anything else.”

Her hand closed over it. “I wish I had known that sooner,” she murmured. “But thank you.”

There was another span of silence and Lavellan looked out at the ballroom and the merriment now in full swing. Such opulence. Yet all he saw was the festering sore it hid.

“You know,” said Briala, “you remind me of someone, Inquisitor.”

“Oh?”

“Another strange Dalish elf,” she said, fondness colouring her eyes and tone. “He was a mentor to me. His name was Felassan. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”

Lavellan smiled sadly without meaning to. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Her eyes sparked, expression lighting up while his heart shrivelled.

“You’re a friend of his?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said and found that he meant it. There were brief flickers of emotions — mirth, fondness, exasperation, support. Laughter chimed in his head. “He’s gotten me into more trouble than he’s worth a few times."

Briala snorted. “That does sound like him.” Her look softened. “I wonder if he would be proud of what I’ve managed.”

“He would be,” said Lavellan. “He believed in you.”

“And how would you know this if you haven’t seen him in a while?”

“Just the kind of person he is.” _He betrayed Fen’Harel for you._

Briala looked out the window, gaze saddening, no doubt missing Felassan. She shook her head. “In any case, thank you for tonight. It may not have gone according to plan but…” She tightened her grip around the locket. “You have secured a way for me to help our people.” Lavellan blinked. Our. That was… nice.

He pushed aside the tangle of emotions pressing against his ribs.

“Good luck, Marquise,” he said. “And I know they’ve been hostile but please watch over the Dalish too. You’ve only met one clan, right? Maybe I can introduce you to the nicer ones, another time.”

“Another time. Is your clan like you?”

“Most. I mean there’s about a hundred and something of us and obviously some are assholes, but we’re a reasonable lot. They’re in a bit of trouble with the nobles of Wycome at the moment. Got framed for some bogus illness that was actually red lyrium poisoning.”

“Do you need me to intervene?” asked Briala.

“No, I’ve got it for now, thank you.”

She nodded. “If you ever do require my help, you need only ask.” He must have made a vulnerable face because she offered him a kind smile. “Inquisitor… how long has it been since you’ve been among elves who considered you their people?”

He laughed brokenly. “Not in a damn long time. You… You’re the first to have said ‘our people’. The Dalish think I’ve been too influenced by the humans, but with the humans, I’m a Dalish. My two elven friends don’t—” He shook his head. “It’s been a while.”

“I know a little of how you feel,” she said. Even with the elves of Orlais, Briala had been apart due to her previous position as Celene’s handmaid. 

“Probably more than a little,” he said. “It’s a thankless job. But we get it done.”

She made an agreeing noise before one of the elven servants whispered for Briala’s attention. 

“Duty calls,” she said and bowed. Lavellan bowed back. “Good luck, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Once Briala was gone, Lavellan sighed and ran his hands through his hair, defenceless against the onslaught of raging, self-deprecating shrieks in his head. He asked one of the servants to return his bow to his reserved room before he sought an unoccupied balcony for fresh air.

Morrigan arrived shortly. Either she had the same idea or she was waiting for him to be alone.

He turned and watched her approach. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about her, but he couldn’t deny that she had been a great help during the fight against Solas. They had embarked on a project together to record the knowledge the Well of Sorrows possessed, though their sessions had always been disrupted. Planning battles tended to do that.

Before Flemeth’s death, she had sent Morrigan the Old God Soul for safekeeping. Why? Morrigan hadn’t known either.

“Shouldn’t you be dancing with the nobility, Inquisitor?” asked Morrigan as she stood beside him. “‘Tis your victory we celebrate, after all.”

“I’m a little tired of dances.” He said and braced his arms against the railing.

“You tire of popularity so quickly?”

“Oh I’ve been popular for about half a year now. It got old after the first two minutes, believe me.”

He was semi-present for the rest of that conversation so he wasn’t sure what half-hearted quips they traded, but as before, it ended with him welcoming her into the Inquisition. Morrigan bowed out after their conversation.

Left him alone with his thoughts once more.

The elation which buoyed him the entire night, once golden in his veins, now thickened into the poison that it was. How long until Orlais twisted him? Until the atmosphere, the double-dealing, the scheming, and the Game turned him away from the principles he’d resolved to never stray from again?

He stared up at the stars as if they would have the answer.

If it weren’t for Leliana, he would have let Celene die and would’ve patted himself on the back for a job well done. There was something hilarious in that. That it was Leliana who reminded him.

Footsteps neared. Lavellan already knew whose they were because who fucking else?

Solas leaned back against the railing. Lavellan expected a scolding, something scornful or mocking for deviating from the plan, maybe even amusement.

But all Solas did was softly ask, “Talk to me? What are you thinking?”

That… He hadn’t expected that.

“You were so certain the whole night,” continued Solas. “Then you… changed your mind, and it did not come without grief.”

Lavellan fiddled with the edge of his gloves, pulled them off and let the wind cool the heated skin, before he shoved the gloves into his pockets. He blew off strands of his hair which slipped out of their arrangement and fell over his eyes. They kept falling back. He grumbled.

“Lethallin,” Solas warned, sensing his stalling.

He huffed, expression turning bitter. “I hate Orlais, I hate the Game, I hate court.”

Solas made a soft, disbelieving noise. “Yet you excelled at it. You had an entire empire wrapped around your smallest finger. It looked as if you were enjoying yourself.”

“And that’s the problem,” said Lavellan. “You’re right, I enjoyed myself. I felt alive.” He looked back at the open door, observed the snippets of celebration that he could glimpse. Lavellan chewed on his lip and turned away. “And I got carried away. This whole empire is poison. It tastes nice for the first few sips before it settles into something heavy and by the time you notice, it’s in your system and you’re choking.” Lavellan snorted. “Dramatic of me, I know.”

“Though not entirely incorrect,” he said. “Is that why you changed course?”

“If I had let Celene die, I would’ve betrayed my principles. I would’ve surrendered to the Game’s machinations.” He buried his head in his hands. “But was that selfish of me? Would I have put Briala and the elves in a better position if I let Celene die? Did I screw up a perfectly good plan by putting on my holier than thou bullshit? I don’t know, Solas.”

Cheers erupted from within the ballroom. Late nights always made parties rowdier.

“Duty or principle,” said Solas, “and you chose principle. When cornered, you seem to always choose principle.”

“Not always,” he murmured, mind flashing back to the times he held a list of names. Of their fallen. And over the years, he stopped seeing names, instead saw how many lines there were, how many pages. “Not that it mattered. I traded one death for another.”

“It is not the same,” said Solas. 

“Isn’t it?”

“You are not so naïve as to think that you can save everyone. You have long come to terms with this.” His voice softened. “No matter how much you may wish to save as many as you can. The Grand Duke and Empress cannot coexist. The stability will not last long, and you would cause yourself and Briala further stress. You know this.”

“I could have intervened,” said Lavellan. “Saved Gaspard. I hold no fondness for him but…”

“And he holds no fondness for you in return. Or elves for that matter. Had he lived, the elves of Orlais would not be safe. _You_ would not be safe.”

“I’m never safe.”

“All the more reason to lessen those who would seek to hurt you.” 

Lavellan pressed his lips tight. He knew that, he _knew_. Was it the case of choosing the lesser evil? Gaspard was a warmonger and as soon as things with Corypheus settled, he would likely have turned his gaze towards Ferelden. Celene was more pragmatic. More inclined to stay her hand unless it was pushed.

At his silence, Solas asked, “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“This. It is not… It is self-destructive.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He raised his head slightly, angled it towards Solas. “I promised I wouldn’t let war or politics remove the individual value of life.”

Solas stared at him and the quiet between them spun into a conversation of its own that neither of them were privy to.

“You are frightening,” Solas finally said and Lavellan startled. He frowned at Solas.

“Why?”

“Because I see in you the capacity to become a monster,” said Solas. “The worst kind. A cunning one. You can make others love you far too easily, isolate your enemies and strip them of their defences while you smile. It would be too late when they realise.”

Lavellan wasn’t certain whether to treat that as a compliment or an insult. 

_How about you, Solas? Do I make you love me far too easily?_

“You overestimate me, I think,” said Lavellan.

“I estimate you the right amount.” Solas glanced at the door, eyes stormy with indecipherable thoughts. “Only your kindness and compassion still your hand.”

“Do I frighten you?”

“More than anyone else.” 

A cool breeze swept past. 

“In any case,” said Solas as if he didn’t just say the most confusing set of statements back to back like a gallery of mental slaps, “the Grand Duke knew what to expect when he wagered his life for the crown. Remember but do not dwell. You cannot save people from themselves.”

Lavellan bristled. That was the last thing he wanted to hear from Solas of all people.

“You can give it a shot,” he said.

His eyes grew melancholy and Lavellan hated it. “You could,” he said. “But you have thrown your previous plans into disarray. How will you accomplish your goals now? The title of Marquise is significant, and to some extent, you have returned the Dales to the elves, but you see now how deeply ingrained the maltreatment of elves is into Orlesian society.” Lavellan had always seen.

“An empire is always built on the back of slaves,” Lavellan muttered.

“Slaves,” echoed Solas, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “I believe the Orlesians call them _servants_. Slavery is a dreadful practice, so they claim, and abolished it.”

“Yet fascinatingly, the servants are treated no better. They seem to forget that those _servants_ outnumber them.”

“Careful, that almost sounds dissentious. You have eliminated two enemies among the royals. You do not wish to make another.”

Lavellan glanced at him. “I’m going to haunt her dreams, she says. I’m halfway there.”

He sighed. “I take my eyes off you for _five_ seconds…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to start a rebellion. Nobody is in any position to start something like that, but at least I can relax a little knowing Briala has a handle on things here.”

His expression soured. “I do not understand how you can entrust something of this magnitude to her.”

“She cares. She wants change, and I think she can deliver it. They’re stronger than you think.” He stared at the stars again. “ _We’re_ stronger than you think.” _Give us a chance. Let us try first._

“Your strength, I do not doubt. It takes incredible willpower to remain steadfast to your beliefs in the face of a world who would seek to pervert you.”

“I have a terrible feeling you’re taking the wrong message from this.” Because it felt as if Solas was saying, _I am the weak one_. “And do you not see the strength in the elves of Halamshiral? The flames of a fight still linger even after Celene tried to stamp it out. Even as the rest of the world turns their back on them. They fight with all they have. They persevere.”

“Do you ever just take a compliment?” Solas asked.

“Answer the damn question.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he snapped, then reined it in and calmed himself with a few breaths. He tried again. “Because you look like you’re giving up on this world. Because it feels as if we don’t matter to you because we are not _your_ people.”

His gaze hardened. “I apologise if I don’t feel up to involving myself with those who have shunned or scorned me.”

“What about Clan Venalin?” challenged Lavellan. “The elves in Skyhold? Don’t think I don’t see you swinging by to converse magical theory with Grand Enchanter Fiona and some of the apprentices.” He paused, gaze dropping. His voice lowered into something hesitant. “What about me?”

A soft, torn breath left Solas. “V— Lethallin, of course you matter to me.”

“And the rest?”

“You are different.”

“No.” He rubbed his face. “Others are different too, once you take the time to get to know them. I’m sorry you were never given the opportunity with the Dalish, I’m sorry you met those who turned you away. Please understand they were just afraid. It might… take a bit more work. But it’s worth it. We’re worth it.”

Lavellan looked down at the marble railing, traced the veined patterns on its surface.

“How are you so—” Solas muttered a few indiscernible words to himself as he paced and sighed. Many sighs this evening. It was just that kind of night, and Lavellan couldn’t help but smile to himself. Behold: an elven god caught in a moral and emotional dilemma.

He took pity after a while and placed a firm yet gentle hand on Solas’ shoulder which stilled his pacing. Solas frowned at him.

“It’s alright,” said Lavellan. “It’ll be alright.”

“You cannot promise that.”

“It’s not a promise, it’s a reassurance.” Laughter in the ballroom caught their attention. Lavellan let go of his shoulder and leaned against the railing once more. “But let’s save that discussion for another time. It’s been a long night already.”

“An understatement,” said Solas but at least he stayed beside Lavellan. “And no matter the emotional grief involved—” Lavellan snorted— “tonight was still a victory against Corypheus. Your exposure of Grand Duchess Florianne was masterful. Nobody could tear their eyes away from you.” He eyed Lavellan. “Where does a Dalish elf learn to manipulate an imperial court?”

“Josephine Montilyet’s office,” he muttered. “Where does an elven apostate learn to sneak about court well enough to smuggle weapons in?”

“The Fade,” replied Solas. Lavellan gave him a saccharine smile.

“Ah, then let us thank our brilliant teachers.”

But Solas wasn’t one to leave certain things alone. 

“It occurs to me that I barely know anything about your past,” he said.

Lavellan met his intent stare. “Nor I yours.”

“What Dalish clan would have ever encountered a Qunari, much less spent enough time with them for you to develop such a close bond?”

“Been sitting on that one for long, have you?”

Solas smiled and Lavellan huffed.

“Many extraordinary things happen every day,” said Lavellan. “A Dalish clan encountering a Qunari is hardly one of them.”

“You know more Elvish than most Dalish,” he continued. 

What was this, interrogate Lavellan time? Lavellan raised a brow. “Clan Lavellan is a very old clan, one of the first I believe, and we have amassed a significant amount of lore and knowledge. You’ll find that most in the Clan have an extended Elvish vocabulary.”

“Yet there’s an almost imperceptible shift in your accent.” 

Shit, there was? He kept his expression neutral despite this even as Solas’ interrogative gaze searched Lavellan like a puzzle, seeking hidden latches or weak points.

“The Dalish diaspora resulted in regional changes to Elvish,” returned Lavellan smoothly. “And as you said, it’s almost imperceptible.”

“You fight like no Dalish hunter.” Well, Solas was _not_ letting up tonight either, was he? “Admittedly, most of your forms are based off Dalish styles, but the way you integrate them into battle would be considered unorthodox. You have shaped them for war.”

“I kind of had to? Fighting demons and ancient beings claiming godhood was a little unprecedented for me.”

“Even in Haven when the Breach was newly formed.”

“And how do you know that I have shaped them for war?” Lavellan fired back. “I see you and your martial forms.”

“I learned it in—”

“The Fade,” he cut off irritably. “Everything is conveniently from the Fade with you.”

He chuckled, eyes sharp as he assessed Lavellan. “The Fade houses common and esoteric knowledge alike. One need only know where to look.”

“And you know where to look, do you?”

“I do,” he said. 

They had grown closer, arms touching as they rested them on the railing. Lavellan hadn’t realised. Neither made a move to pull back.

“Lost the hat?” Lavellan asked and shifted the topic. Solas narrowed his eyes at the subject change yet he went with it. That conversation was getting dangerous for them both. Solas had secrets of his own to keep too, and if he had continued prying, Lavellan would have found a way to turn the conversation on its head and put Solas on the spot instead. Even more so, anyway.

“A Venatori knocked it off my head and a Rage demon set fire to it.”

“Dorian must be pleased.”

“He was. I thought of burning his hair but refrained.”

Lavellan’s shoulders shook with soft laughter. “Well I thank you for displaying restraint.”

Solas smiled at him before another round of applause and cheers from inside caught his attention.

“It’s that time of night,” mused Lavellan. “Have the stingy Orlesians finally brought out their finest cask?”

“It would appear so.” He stared at the door, head tilted in thought, before he pushed off the railing and worked his gloves off. After draping them over the railing, he offered his hand and bowed.

Lavellan’s heart dropped yet flew at the same time.

“May I have this dance, Inquisitor Lavellan?”

He had offered last time, too. Had dragged Lavellan to the middle of the dance floor with the court watching their every move as they engaged in a dance which matched the sensuous and nigh provocative music the orchestra had swapped to. Everyone was drunk at that point so his reputation mattered little by then.

And after…

_The door shuddered in its frame as Lavellan kicked it close in his haste, Solas’ hungry hands gripping and pulling him close._

_“I think I deserve a reward for a job well done,” Lavellan whispered._

_Solas backed him against the door. “The dance was your reward. Allow me to indulge myself instead.” His thigh slipped between Lavellan’s and pressed. Lavellan’s breath stuttered. Solas’ gaze sharpened, pinning him. “I have all night.”_

That had been… an excellent end to the day.

_Focus!_

He shook off those memories and placed his hand in Solas’ despite his better judgement.

“Trying to catch the band while they’re playing?” Lavellan asked and praised himself for the smooth delivery. Solas smiled, raised his other hand, and a gust of wind pushed the balcony doors closed which cut off the music. Lavellan blinked. “Okay, we’re off to a suspicious and ominous start.” This was new.

“You have had enough of Orlais for tonight,” said Solas and Lavellan scrunched his face in agreement. Solas pulled him closer. Lavellan went without struggle. “I wish to teach you a dance. A dance from Elvhenan.”

This was _very_ new.

“I make for a poor dance student,” Lavellan said. “The amount of times I stepped on my instructor’s toes just so I could dance with Florianne properly is astounding.”

“I promise it is a simple dance,” said Solas, smile growing. Probably at the thought of Lavellan stepping on people’s toes. “I believe the dagger fighting style you usually employ is derived from this dance so most of it should come naturally to you.”

“A fighting style stemmed from a ballroom dance?” he asked as Solas stood behind him and rested both his hands on Lavellan’s hips. Lavellan’s heart froze mid-beat.

“Why do you reason it is called the Water Dance? After all, what is a battle if not another form of dance?” He guided Lavellan’s arms into position. “Do the footwork and motions according to the first form slowly. I will guide your movements.” Lavellan did so while Solas matched his strides and made slight adjustments, fleeting touches, his presence behind Lavellan both an unyielding blanket and a pliant wall.

Once they finished the form, Solas turned him by the hips, fingers digging into the crest of Lavellan’s hipbones for half a second. Lavellan’s hands rested on Solas’ shoulders without prompt, guided by a distant and faded memory.

“Is this right?” Lavellan asked, resisted grimacing at his floundering. He began this night in control, now look at him — uncertain and unmoored. Maybe he had his strings secure around the court, but what of the strings holding himself together? Then again, those had frayed since long ago.

“Yes,” said Solas as they began a circuit of steps that Lavellan could follow. Whether because it held the hints of the Water Dance or because his body remembered something his mind could not, he wasn’t certain. This dance had no pauses like the Orlesian valses. It was a continuous motion, filled with divergences and convergences, stepping away from your partner to dance your own steps, but always returning to the other. Always.

They danced in the silence but the ghosts of a memory whispered in Lavellan’s head. Impressions of notes and colours. The swirl of cloth and ornate tiles. Gone in a breath.

“Excellent, you have learned the steps,” said Solas as they reunited at the circuit’s conclusion. 

Lavellan laughed, more a breath than a proper sound. “I could almost hear the music in my head. Almost. It’s a little abstract.”

Solas smiled. “You did not think I would let you dance to just silence, did you?”

The Veil fluttered around them like the light brush of a butterfly’s wings, and the air shimmered briefly before [the faint plucks of a harp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GiQ350b8MV4) drifted in the air. Lavellan glanced around in search of the source but the alluring melody slipped — blithe and transient threads in the margins of his senses. He cast Solas a questioning look.

Without warning, Solas grasped Lavellan’s hand and spun him skilfully. Lavellan yelped and suspected he only stayed upright because of Solas.

He pulled Lavellan closer. “Shall we?” he asked and Lavellan nodded, breathless, and his hands settled on Solas’ shoulders again.

And once again, they were moving, moving, moving. Seamless and weaving. Two currents of water meeting, swerving, the harp’s melody cascading like a gentle waterfall. He fell into the rhythm and the music.

Whenever they reunited, their bodies remained just shy of meeting, paralleled but never encountering.

Lavellan swapped roles and slipped behind Solas at the conclusion of a circuit. He placed his hands on Solas’ hips and resisted gripping onto it for dear life if only to moor himself.

“May I lead this time?” Lavellan asked and Solas chuckled.

“As you wish.”

He turned Solas for the next step and it took all his focus to not tug Solas closer, to push aside any stray thoughts and memories of moments just like this.

“Was this a common ballroom dance?” asked Lavellan so he could stay sane.

“No. It was only performed during specific occasions.”

“Such as?”

Solas’ eyes gleamed. “After victory.”

They separated, danced around one another as though in orbit, before Lavellan pulled Solas close. Too hard. They collided and knocked the breaths out of their chests.

Lavellan winced. “Sorry.”

“I will not fault you for enthusiasm,” laughed Solas.

“You should probably take the lead again before I end up concussing either you or myself.”

“You were managing quite well, in my opinion.” Nevertheless, Solas led the dance again.

The music swelled. After all the spins, the separations, and the subsequent convergences, the distance between them lessened to the point that Lavellan felt the traces of caustic lightning from Solas’ magic flickering over areas where they touched.

As the harp slowed, Solas travelled his hand up and around Lavellan’s side to rest it at the small of his back, left a faint ripple of shivers in its wake.

“Let one hand go,” Solas whispered.

He obliged, pulled one of his hands away as Solas gently dipped him.

“Angle your head slightly and reach for the floor. Don’t worry. I have you.”

He did so, back arching as the harp plucked its last running melody, his fingers brushing against the marble tiles. They held the position until the final two notes before Solas eased him back up and Lavellan’s hand returned to Solas’ shoulder.

They stayed like that for a moment, his gaze resting on Solas’ coat buttons because he still couldn’t hold eye contact, both slightly breathless.

It was the exertion, he told himself. The dance was simple and elegant but unforgiving. It was the exertion.

“Well done,” murmured Solas. “Thank you for humouring my request.”

Lavellan smiled, heart pounding, pressing. “Thank you for teaching me. Even if I crashed into you a few times.”

Solas chuckled. “As I said, I will not fault you for enthusiasm.”

A charged, uncertain silence hung. Solas didn’t let go. Neither did Lavellan.

He finally mustered up the courage to look Solas in the eye. Solas’ grip on Lavellan’s hips tightened for another half-second.

“You have stared down the most vicious of Orlais’ monsters,” said Solas, “yet you seem to have difficulty meeting my eyes.”

“The eyes give many things away,” he said, averted his gaze without meaning to. “It’s a little easier to hide vulnerabilities when you stare at monsters. And I’ve already— I think you’ve seen me cry more than most people. That’s… a little embarrassing on my end, I’m sorry.”

Solas sighed. “And as I have told you before, I do not think any lesser of you for it. You have always needed to maintain a strong front for everyone. You have been their pillar of strength.” His grip on Lavellan’s hips tightened once more, as if he could single-handedly keep him from unravelling, and Lavellan could almost believe he could. Solas was both unraveller and preserver. “But you are no marble statue. Some seem to forget you are merely flesh and bone, that you shed tears just as they do. Sometimes _you_ seem to forget this, too. You are allowed to feel, Mahanon. It is not secession.”

“Tiring, isn’t it?” Lavellan mumbled. “Feeling?”

Something in Solas’ voice saddened. “I did not say it wasn’t.”

He glanced up at Solas again. What did Solas see when he looked into Lavellan’s eyes?

Another silence hung, begged to be filled with anything other than words.

The door burst open and the sudden light and ambient chatter startled them, saved them from making any further choices. Lavellan leapt back. Solas stayed in place and let his arms fall calmly by his sides.

“Quisitree!” yelled Sera, a giddy grin on her face. “There you are! You gotta see—” She broke off into a giggling fit as she pointed behind her, voice slurring. “Bull’s got— Horns! Got ‘em stuck in proper. It’s friggin’ good, it is. You gotta see!” She hiccupped before she dashed off, left Lavellan staring wide-eyed at her retreating back.

He looked back at Solas, gesturing inside. “I should… make sure the children are behaving.”

“I guarantee you they are not,” he muttered.

Lavellan laughed, then grimaced at the crash from inside. Creators, what were they getting up to this time? He stared at Solas, hesitant to leave him, but Solas waved him off with a mild smile.

“Go on. I’m sure you would prefer to leave Orlais without having to pay the Empress for breaking her porcelains.”

“I’ll just remind her I saved her life,” scoffed Lavellan. His joking expression eased into something sincere. “Thank you. For the dance.”

Solas tipped his head, smiling. “You are welcome. And I hope you keep my earlier words in mind.”

“I— I’ll try.”

Lavellan’s gaze fell on Sera balanced atop a stack of chairs, holding a cake platter above her head. He balked.

“Sera, no! No, put that down!” he scolded and sprinted inside.

He managed to talk her out of freediving off the chair pile, then helped pull Bull’s horns out from a keg because he’d tried to show off in front of Dorian.

After wrangling the Inquisition members into some semblance of ‘behaved’, Lavellan retreated to a corner where he let his smile drop. He rubbed his face. He had rejected offers to join the afterparty, too drained and exhausted.

Vergala flew in and perched on his shoulders. He rubbed the underside of her beak with a tired smile.

“Been helping the Inquisition soldiers, I hear,” he said and she fluffed her feathers in pride. “Well done, clever girl. Now then, I think it’s time to crash into a bed and stare at a ceiling for six hours while regretting all of my life choices.”

He followed the directions back to the Guest Quarters and relished the quiet of the corridors, the sounds of merriment growing fainter.

“Tonight has been very long,” he sighed to Vergala who soothed him by butting her head against his cheek.

In the quiet, his mind returned to the dance.

It was extraordinary how much you could miss someone even if they were right in front of you.

Lavellan focused on the Well of Sorrow’s whispers instead for background noise. When did the collective will of Mythal’s devotees stop being an ominous nuisance and more of a comforting presence?

He was tied to three Evanuris. This was just fantastic.

“—you mean it’s not working?”

“Briala can’t enter!”

Lavellan stopped. He slipped behind a statue beneath an alcove just as two hassled elves turned the corner and swept past him in furious whispers.

“But we need the eluvians! Most of our supplies are there!”

“Maybe it’s broken?”

“It can’t be. Briala thinks they may have been blocked.”

“By who? Even if they had the phrase, they don’t have the keystone to take the network.”

“Magic, maybe?”

Lavellan’s stomach dropped. Everything fell into place.

Solas being late after arranging the caches, his demeanour for the entire night, teaching Lavellan a dance of _victory_. Lavellan had always assumed that Solas took Briala’s eluvians after he left the Inquisition but gods, Lavellan was an _idiot_. He was the one who gave Solas the job of securing the caches tonight. He was the one who made it even easier.

Solas wasn’t just celebrating the Inquisition’s victory.

“Oh, you fool,” he hissed at himself.

He chased after the two elves. “Excuse me?” he called out and they startled but quickly recovered, plastering on amiable smiles.

“Inquisitor Lavellan. Is there something you needed?”

“Can you lead me to Briala, please? I need to speak to her. It’s urgent.”

“I’m afraid she’s busy—”

“You’re having eluvian problems?” he asked, which gave them pause. He nodded. “As I thought. Please, let me have a look.”

“Do you think you can help?”

“We’ll see,” he said.

They shared a look before they nodded at him. Lavellan followed them down the corridor and through a series of hidden passages reserved for servants for easy navigation and to keep them out of sight. It exited into a corridor where Briala and an entourage of elves were gathered in discussion.

Briala looked up at Lavellan’s approach. Her mask was off now, the dark curls of her hair escaping from her hairpins.

“Problem after problem tonight, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” she said in genuine surprise.

“So then,” he said, expression grim, “I hear you’ve been having eluvian issues.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, Lavellan just can't catch a break.
> 
> A lot of you were looking forward to the dance so I hope I did it justice! Especially since it's so iconic. I linked in the music I had in mind while they were dancing but [here it is again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GiQ350b8MV4) if you chose not to open it just yet. 
> 
> Also, so it doesn't cause confusion because it totally confused me the first time I heard it in-game, Celene speaks with the majestic plural so instead of saying "I", she says "we" to denote that she's also speaking as the leader of Orlais. There's one line where she deliberately drops the majestic plural though.
> 
> (Honestly, Solas this entire night was just: *heart eyes*)
> 
> I read the "Solas took the eluvians during Halamshiral" theory on the Dumped Drunk and Dalish blog which some of you are probably familiar with because it's where I go for all things Solas lmaO. Anyway, I have now adopted it as my headcanon too. Solas was sipping on his wine because he got the eluvians _and_ his vhenan obliterated Orlesian court, what a good night.


	45. Of overlapping images

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can now hover over the elvish words (or press and hold if on mobile) to view the translations immediately. If for some reason that doesn't work, you can still click on the the number to take you to the translations at the bottom, same as before. The hover translations only work if Creator's Style is on (you can check at the top of the fic, along with the next chapter buttons and stuff). 
> 
> Okay, continue <3

_blurring our visages—_

* * *

“You know about the eluvians?” Briala asked, eyes narrowing.

“My clan came across one,” he lied smoothly. “Although it wasn’t working at the time. My sister is a Dreamer, so she was able to dream and see what they were once used for. I may be able to lend some assistance.”

“You think?”

He shrugged. “Worth a shot, right?”

Briala looked at the elves around her with a silent question and they nodded. She signalled for him to follow and he fell into step beside her as the others trailed close behind.

“What’s the situation?” he asked.

“Are you aware of how it works?”

“Transports you to another realm where you can access more eluvians. Quick travel.”

She nodded. “The network has a central labyrinth where the holder of the keystone can take ownership of it. Whoever owns the network can sense each eluvian within it and where they lead, and they can open or close them at will.” She frowned at him. “But now the eluvian in the palace has been blocked and I can’t open it even with the keystone or passphrase.”

They entered a simple room — as simple as Orlesian nobility could get anyway — and there, propped up against the furthest wall, was an eluvian, its surface dull and faded.

“We use the network to get food to alienages, to store supplies, to warn others in danger from the civil war,” explained Briala, “or even to sabotage Gaspard or Celene’s armies. Anything and everything we could use it for.” Her eyes turned flinty as she laid her hand upon its surface. “We may not need to worry about the civil war anymore, but it’s still convenient and it gives us a safe space to retreat to.”

His fists clenched by his sides. What did Solas say last time about the eluvians? He had to personally override it with his magic?

“So the only way someone could enter this eluvian is if they have the passphrase?” he asked.

“Or if I open it for them.” She put her hand to her chin in thought. “Although, I sensed that three eluvians reopened just a few minutes before you arrived.”

“Where do those three open eluvians lead?”

“One to the Val Royeaux alienage, one to the Halamshiral slums, and one to our main supplies.”

Did Solas leave a few open last time? No, he had assumed complete control.

The other servants fidgeted behind them, aflutter from worry and confusion. Lavellan shot them a brief glance. Some of Briala’s agents could be Solas’. They could have retrieved the passphrase and told him.

The eluvian’s dull surface shimmered.

Briala started and retracted her hand. Everyone stared at the eluvian, breaths held.

Colours burst on its surface before settling into calm, rolling ripples of blue. Opened once again. The others murmured in relief.

“Was that your doing?” Lavellan asked.

“No,” said Briala. “I told you, I can sense them but I can’t control their access.”

Then they couldn’t celebrate just yet. “When did you realise it was blocked?”

“After our earlier conversation when the afterparty began,” said Briala and her lips twisted. “I was too distracted the entire night to notice, not until the others came to fetch me. They said the eluvians wouldn’t open with the passphrase. Nobody saw anyone come and go recently.”

No, they wouldn’t have. Lavellan theorised that Solas did it while he was attending to the caches so that was earlier in the night.

Briala’s expression pulled in concentration. “I’ll go in and investigate.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “It could be dangerous. I just need a weapon.”

He didn’t trust that he could speak as freely as he would like here. Not when he didn’t know who these servants were and who they owed their allegiances to.

Briala narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t go through the trouble of granting you a title just to see you die before you can even spend a day in your new job.”

She stared at him, frown deepening, but her shoulders slacked and she sighed.

“Fine,” she muttered and nodded at one of the servants. One of them stepped forward and lent Lavellan two daggers.

“Thank you,” he said and strapped it to his hips.

“Stay here,” said Briala to the others. “Keep an eye out for trouble.”

Briala and Lavellan stepped through the eluvian, the magic washing over their skin, prickling and spraying as they passed, and then—

Home.

The light cleared and Lavellan stepped into the Crossroads, though it looked different to the network the Qunari had a temporary control of. Different to Morrigan’s too. The paths that wended through this realm was simple stone with runes carved upon them, glowing white yet turning iridescent once they were in his periphery. Lavellan could read the runes if he looked long enough. An ability granted by the Well.

Everything beyond the road was indistinct. Smudges of trees in the distance. The sky was a haze and anything beyond the road was grey.

“Stay close,” said Briala. “Always stay on the path. I don’t know how I’ll explain to your Inquisition that I lost their Inquisitor in a separate realm.”

He laughed. “My Ambassador would faint from stress.”

“I rest my case.” She glanced around and pressed her lips in displeasure. “The eluvian leading to the labyrinth that controls this network is closed.”

He wasn’t surprised. But still, what the hell was Solas doing?

Lavellan arranged the timeline in his head. So, once his conversation with Briala had ended, that was when they realised that the network had been blocked completely. Lavellan had spent most of that time afterwards talking and dancing with Solas and the only real window of time Solas would have had to reopen a few eluvians was…

After their dance.

After their conversation and talk of plans changing and principles and duty…

Did Solas change his mind? Something tentative curled in Lavellan’s chest. This felt as if Solas was saying, “I’ll give you a fighting chance,” instead of shutting it down entirely. Still a dick move, but not as much of a dick as he could have been.

“Come,” said Briala. “I want to check the closest open eluvian.”

Briala led him through the straightforward paths before arriving at an intersection. She took a left. Lavellan geared to follow but the Well of Sorrows’ whispers heightened, and a strange chill passed through him. He stopped.

Shadows shifted in the corners of his vision.

He turned his head.

Nothing there. Nothing but the grey paths and glowing runes and the impressions of trees in the distance.

Something brushed against his back. A ghost of a touch.

Lavellan jerked away, hands unsheathing his daggers in a flash. Vergala flew off his shoulders and perched on a nearby tree.

Smoke coasted along the path, poured forth from seemingly nowhere. He settled into a battle stance. Could this be a demon? A new kind of horror? Something of Solas’ creation?

The smoke coalesced, darkened, formed the flickering shape of a cloaked figure. Lavellan’s eyes widened. The smoke compacted further until the figure’s outlines grew defined, their cloak swaying from a non-existent breeze. Their cloak of raven feathers. No, but that—

That couldn’t be. This figure had only ever been in his dreams.

He lowered his daggers slowly, eyes wary.

“Why are you here?” Lavellan asked. Their hood still cast an unnatural shadow over their face and obscured it.

The raven-cloaked figure gave no answer. Merely turned and walked the path straight ahead, the edges of their cloak dissipating into smoke. Lavellan stared at them, then at Briala who was on the left path, then back to the raven-cloaked figure who had stopped. They were just… waiting there.

“Vergala, are you seeing this?” he asked.

She returned to his shoulders and cawed. “Follow.”

“But…” He glanced at Briala who had continued ahead, unaware that Lavellan had stopped. The raven-cloaked figure started walking, fading further into smoke as the distance between them and Lavellan grew. The last few times the figure made an appearance, they had led him to something related to his memories, so could it be the same situation now? 

With a resigned sigh, Lavellan followed the figure.

But no matter how fast he ran, they remained the same distance apart, the figure always on the verge of disappearing. He couldn’t risk slowing otherwise he’d lose track of them. At least there was only one path, even if it curved here and there. It would be easy to backtrack.

The large eluvian soon came to view, its golden, ornate frame the only splash of colour in this greyscale land.

The cloaked figure was nowhere to be seen.

Lavellan stared at the dull surface of the eluvian, frowning. Why here? It wasn’t as if he could step through.

A headache pulsed at the back of his head.

> _My fingers tingle in anticipation and I can’t keep the tremble away from my aura as I descend into the gardens. Dirthamen sits by the fountain, its stream of water whispering secret songs._
> 
> _“ Ma Venuralas[1]_ _,” I say, “I wish to show you something.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen looks up at me, his fingers swirling lazy patterns over the water._
> 
> _“Calm,” Dirthamen reminds me and I take a moment to compose myself. My aura recedes. He smiles in approval. “What did you wish to show me?”_
> 
> _“We will need an eluvian for it.”_
> 
> _He rises and outstretches a hand. I go to his side and he rests that hand on my back._
> 
> _“Come, let us walk through the garden,” he says. “We may use the eluvian here.”_
> 
> _We walk through the garden path, its white stones gleaming opalescent, every breath of wind swaying the bells of flowers draped over the crystal trees. Dirthamen strolls without urgency. Our slow pace chafes at me, but his solid hand on my back guides me to patience._
> 
> _“The wisteria are beautiful,” says Dirthamen, reaching up and brushing his fingers against them as we pass. “Is there a reason why you chose to plant them?”_
> 
> _“Their colour reminds me of your eyes.”_
> 
> _He smiles. “You never did tell me what I did to earn your loyalty.”_
> 
> _“I saw an artist,” I say, “who could use a difficult medium.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen watches me from the corner of his eyes but says nothing else._
> 
> _We soon reach the eluvian, which flares with colour upon Dirthamen’s approach. His hand falls off my back as I step forward._
> 
> _“The Fade is an ever-changing realm,” I say, and place my hand upon its surface. “Change is a major force within the Fade, shaping the very nature of it. The eluvians borrow this malleable characteristic.” I flex my fingers, colours rippling as I reach for the very essence of change within the eluvian’s magic. “June has done a wonderful job of integrating it into the mirrors. It is skilful. But change is change, and it is still_ my _domain.”_
> 
> _A flood of light flares from my fingertips and douses the colours._
> 
> _I pull my hand back and smile back at Dirthamen whose usually serene disposition wavers with the hints of surprise._
> 
> _“You closed it,” he whispers._
> 
> _I touch the dull surface once more and colours burst from the point of contact._
> 
> _“And now I have opened it,” I say._
> 
> _“Without a passphrase or keystone.” His eyes glimmer with pride and he rests his hand upon my head. “You are pushing boundaries, my little raven.”_
> 
> _“Boundaries exist to be pushed.”_
> 
> _He laughs. “Perhaps, but you must take care. Entropy bites at your heels.” He moves his hand to cradle my cheek, his touch gentle but his eyes steely. “There is strength in control. Know when to hold the leash tight… and when to slacken your grip. But never let it go.”_
> 
> _I hold his gaze. “How tight do you hold my leash, ma Venuralas?”_
> 
> _Dirthamen smiles. “You have a hungry look in your eyes.”_

Devotion invaded his lungs, stained every exhale. Lavellan passed a hand over his face, shook off the curl of gratification from that distant, faded memory. He closed his eyes and took a moment to recompose himself. Vergala cawed in worry. He ignored the chill on his cheek — the remnant of Dirthamen’s touch.

Lavellan eyed the faded eluvian and the runes hidden in the ornate patterns of its frame. From what he could read, this eluvian led to the labyrinth which had control of the entire network. If Briala could re-enter, she could wrest control away from Solas. Lavellan could open it for her.

He stared at his hand. Could he do it again? He had no idea how to use any of his spirit abilities, whatever they were.

Fuck it, it was worth a shot.

Lavellan reached for the eluvian, rested tentative fingers on its surface. He scrunched his face in focus and searched for the essence of change within the eluvian. Its magic was there. Faint. Pulsing. He sifted through the noise, searched the turbulent ocean of magic for the threads of change.

“Come on,” he hissed.

Something called, tugged. He grabbed a thread before it could slip through his awareness, something within him resonating with the eluvian.

Lavellan sucked in a breath, eyes widening.

He had it.

Now all he had left to do was pull—

_ Is jueolas[2]_, the Well warned.

Lavellan froze.

 _Patience,_ echoed Dirthamen’s voice in his head, and Lavellan’s jaw clenched but he still found himself heeding it.

What were the consequences of forcefully opening this? If the owner of the network could sense the eluvians and whether they were opened or closed, then forcefully opening this would alert Solas _and_ Briala (since they had a strange, joint ownership of the network from what he could tell). Briala would catch him on his lie, Solas would investigate. Solas was already suspicious enough about him.

His shoulders slumped. Begrudgingly, he released his hold over the eluvian and stepped back.

Not today, it seemed, but the coil of excitement still pulsed within him.

“Let’s get back to Briala,” he said to Vergala. He made his way back but not before casting the eluvian a final glance over his shoulder.

He followed the path back to the intersection where he had separated from Briala and took the path she had taken. Wherever she was now. She had told him not to wander and then he’d gone traipsing off on his merry way. At least something had come out of it, even if he couldn’t use the ability for now.

“You always ruin my fun,” Lavellan muttered at Solas.

“Inquisitor!” came Briala’s admonishing voice from behind him and he jumped. Lavellan turned in time for a whack to his arm. “I was looking for you everywhere. I told you not to wander!”

He rubbed his arm with a sheepish, grimacing smile. “Uh, sorry?”

“Do I need to pinch and drag you by the ear?”

“I promise to stay close,” he swore, and put a hand to his heart.

Briala sighed. “Walk in front so I can keep an eye on you.”

“No trust! I’m so offended.”

“You’ll live.”

Lavellan behaved and stayed with Briala the entire time. It helped that no raven-cloaked figures made a reappearance. They soon reached one of the remaining active eluvians, its surface bursting with colour.

“Where’s this one lead?” he asked.

“Most of our supplies,” she said.

Vergala straightened to her full height, scanning the surroundings. Her crest rose. Before Lavellan could ask, she took off and circled the skies. He frowned up at her.

“Is your bird alright?” asked Briala.

“She saw something,” he said. “She only does that when there’s trouble nearby.”

Briala reached for her bow but Lavellan held up a hand and signalled for her to wait. Vergala cawed twice, circling one of the short, scraggy trees beside the path. Lavellan’s gaze fell on it.

And by the base of it, so small he almost missed it, was a mouse.

_“He’s started getting an interest in mice,” Samara said and sighed. “Of all the animals…”_

Because he must have seen his mother shapeshifting into one.

Vergala dove from the skies and swooped at Samara, cawing incessantly. Samara ran. Shit, she’d report back to Solas! How much did she hear and see?

“Vergala, after it!” he called and she gave chase. Lavellan ran after them and Briala had no choice but to follow, bewildered.

In the end, Samara was too fast, and she blended in perfectly with the greyscale realm. They lost her.

“Shit,” he hissed and mussed his hair.

Vergala returned to his shoulders, head bowed. “Sorry. Slow.”

His heart broke at her dejection. “There’s nothing to apologise for. You still saw her.”

“Too late.”

He scratched the underside of her beak. “Chin up, love. You did what you could.”

Briala crossed her arms once she caught up to them. “Do you have a personal vendetta against rodents?” she asked.

“That was a shapeshifter.” He rubbed his face. It really was a good call that he didn’t mess with the eluvian. He thanked the Well of Sorrows. The whispers surged before retreating.

“Ah, telling the truth now, are you?”

Lavellan stilled. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.

Finally, he looked at her and smiled dryly. “I got sloppy, huh?”

“A little,” she said. “Even the most proficient players of the Game slip when they’re exhausted or something catches them off-guard. Which is it, Inquisitor?”

“Both,” he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Let’s get back. You likely have questions.”

“That I do.”

They returned to the Winter Palace, Lavellan’s stomach twisting the entire time. Upon return, he gave the borrowed daggers back and waited for Briala to relay the situation and delegate tasks to the others, the atmosphere fraught with uncertainty. Once they were alone, she pointedly jerked her head. He followed her through more irritating corridors, bypassed a barred door, and entered another area under renovations.

“This way,” she said and opened a door into a humble bedroom with a table set up in front of an already roaring fireplace.

“Vergala, check,” he said and she flew out the open windows, scanning the area before she flew back into the room.

“Clear,” she said.

“Keep an eye out.”

She cawed and flew out the window once more. Briala eyed him the entire time.

“We should be free to talk now,” he said.

She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an ornate silver box.

“I refuse to begin this conversation without food,” she grumbled and set it on the table, then fell more than sat on the seat. She gestured for him to take a seat across her and opened the lid. Lavellan gasped as he sat. The box contained the small, round biscuits from earlier! Briala raised a brow. “Would you like some?”

He fidgeted. “It’s your food. You go ahead.”

She snorted and pushed the box towards him. “Go on. They’re called macarons. It’s relatively new. First created in Antiva, apparently, and our bakers had the idea of adding filling.”

Lavellan gratefully took one and couldn’t quite hide his beam.

“You are very strange,” she said with an amused smile. “Terribly ominous with your black uniform and talking raven and yet you smile like a child during their first Satinalia when you eat macarons.”

“I’ve never had these before. These are life-changing,” he said after he finished one. He would have died without having ever eaten them. That was the true travesty. This was the real reason why he was brought back in time. So he could eat macarons. That was what he was put here on this world to do. He itched for another but refrained.

Briala pushed it further towards him.

“Eat as much as you want. Do take care. It gets sweet after a few.”

Lavellan’s hesitation lasted a grand total of three seconds before he took another and happily bit into it. It almost made him forget about his apprehension.

After eating in silence for a handful of moments, Briala leaned back and clasped her hands over the table.

“Alright, talk,” she said. “How do you really know about the eluvians?”

“First tell me what gave it away.”

“Not a single shred of awe when we entered the eluvian,” she said and smiled. “You looked rather used to it for someone who’s only heard the theory of it.”

“I walked through the Fade physically. You ever think that I’m just used to strange things in general?”

“Not this,” she said. “Not when it’s a fragment of our history.” Her eyes softened. “Not when it feels like home.”

Lavellan stared at the fire.

“I wasn’t completely certain when I called you out,” she said, “but like you said, you were exhausted. It’s harder to continue lying.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ve used the eluvians before and that’s about as much as I’m willing to divulge on that matter.”

She studied him. “The eluvians being taken from me wouldn’t happen to have something to do with the wolf haunting your dreams, would it?”

Lavellan’s gaze flicked towards her. The fireplace crackled, sputtered out a cloud of embers.

“No wonder Felassan was fond of you,” he mused. “How… was he? When you last saw him?”

She frowned. “You’re stalling.”

“A little,” he admitted, “but really, how was he?” A hint of melancholy spilled into his tone and Briala must have sensed it because she relented.

“He helped me during the Halamshiral rebellion,” she said, smiling softly. “Always arriving when I needed him most. I was so blindly loyal to Celene but he encouraged me to question, helped me see I had merit of my own. I owe him many things.” She laughed. “But he was still an idiot half the time. He chewed on bark.”

Lavellan raised a brow. “Bark.”

“He said certain barks were used by the Dalish as a remedy for headaches.”

He buried his head in his hands and groaned. “When dried and boiled with water to make tea!”

Briala laughed.

“Glad to know he was doing well,” he grumbled.

Before Solas killed him anyway.

Why? Why would he— Felassan was one of his most loyal. All because he failed to get the passphrase?

“I owe the eluvians to him too,” said Briala after her laughter abated. There was still a faint smile on her lips. “We were at the labyrinth. Celene and Gaspard were busy bickering, while I assumed control of the eluvian network for myself. Are you familiar with one of Fen’Harel’s tales? The one of Anaris and Andruil?”

“He goaded them into fighting one another while he chewed through his ropes.”

She nodded. “Felassan told me of it. I saw the situation was similar. Gaspard or Celene, either one would see our people suffer unless I took matters into my own hands.”

“Is he in the habit of telling you a lot of tales about Fen’Harel?”

“Often. He _did_ name himself after one of Fen’Harel’s tales.” She frowned. “From my understanding, the Dalish do not tell tales of him in such a flattering manner. They are usually focused on his deceitful nature, not his guile.”

“No,” he agreed and leaned forward, leaning his elbows on the table. “Did you tell Felassan the pass?”

“He didn’t let me tell him.”

Lavellan’s heart twisted. Felassan hadn’t failed, then. He’d actively chosen to abandon his task. Loyal Felassan who’d changed his name for Solas had chosen to place his faith in Briala in the end.

Even the most loyal could turn away from their gods.

Briala played with the lid of the macaron box, twisting the knob between her fingers. “This wolf in your dreams, Inquisitor… It wouldn’t happen to be the Dread kind, would it?”

Lavellan popped a whole macaron into his mouth.

He reached for another when he finished chewing. Briala pulled the box away from him.

“Yes, fine,” he muttered. “It’s the Dread kind.”

Her brows raised. “Did you anger him?”

“I— Probably.”

“What did you do?”

“I yelled at him. A lot.”

“You yelled,” she said, “at a god.”

“God,” he scoffed. “He’s an idiot is what he is.”

Briala watched him with too-astute eyes. Felassan’s student. Lavellan was certain she’d become even more impressive than Felassan had expected.

“What is your connection to Fen’Harel?” she asked.

“I angered him.”

“If you truly angered him, I don’t think he would go through the trouble of haunting your dreams and spending more time in your presence.”

“Who says it’s actually him visiting my dreams? He could be giving me nightmares about him instead.”

She hummed, completely ignoring him. “Lovers then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All this evasion is working against you, Inquisitor.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps you’re not lovers, but you hold some fondness for him.”

“It’s complicated,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Uncomplicate it. We have time.”

“He’s…” He made a face, searched for a suitable word. Ex-lover? Lover? Fuck, what were they? “He’s a close friend.”

“Celene was my _close friend_ , Inquisitor, did you know?”

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.” She pushed the macaron box towards him again. Lavellan’s hand moved before he could halt it and he was left nibbling irritably on a macaron as Briala smiled at him. “What does he want with the eluvians?”

Lavellan eyed her. Should he follow Felassan’s lead and withhold the truth? Or would that keep Briala in the dark, and therefore vulnerable? If she knew and began actively or subtly trying to work around Solas, he and his agents might realise, and it could all point back to Lavellan. But then, even though Solas had given Briala three eluvians, he still controlled the network and could retract this access at any time. If Lavellan withheld the truth, she could be in trouble. He wanted to believe that Solas would never hurt her or Orlais’ elves but…

He had believed Solas would never use the Well of Sorrows against him.

There was no guarantee.

Lavellan’s head fell on his hands again.

After a measure of silence, he raised his head and asked, “What do you know about the fall of Elvhenan?” 

* * *

Samara scurried through the palace corridors, stuck to crevices and spaces away from sight, ducked from the eyes of nobility and servants alike.

That was a close call. Her heart was still racing from her encounter with the Inquisitor and his raven. The cutting focus of his eyes had struck a small swell of fear within her, far too used to his kinder gazes.

She swerved out an open balcony window, stuck to the ledges and worked her way around the palace’s cornices, crawled up a pipe and swung herself into the open window of her destination. The fireplace blazed, warm, orange firelight awash in the gaudy Orlesian room. She shifted back into her elven form, already on one knee with her head bowed.

“You are early.”

“My apologies,” she said. “I had not counted on Inquisitor Lavellan entering the eluvian with Briala.”

His back was to her as he stood watching the flames. She noted that his right hand gently held something, but the shadows from the fire obscured the item.

“He was with Briala?” he asked. “She revealed the eluvians to him?”

“No, he already knew about them. Of their existence, at least, but he walked the paths as if he had walked them before. He separated from her at one point. I hope you will forgive me for deciding to follow him instead of the Ambassador.”

“You made the right call,” he said. “What did he do?”

She frowned. “He found the eluvian to the labyrinth. Beyond that, nothing else. He reunited with Briala and shortly after, his raven alerted him to my presence.”

He quieted. Only the crackle and pops of the fire filled the silence.

His ensuing laughter startled her.

“So he knows of the eluvians,” he said. “What else have you learned?”

“Not much else, unfortunately. I apologise.” She observed his reaction. He never raised his voice, never became violent or angry even if he was displeased, but most of them would agree that they preferred raised voices and violent outbursts over the cutting and glacial silence that befell the room if they fail him.

He hummed, rolled whatever it was he held in his hands. It sounded like wood.

“There is no need to apologise. You did what you could.”

“Would you like to send someone to his quarters?” she asked. “We could observe—”

“No. Let him rest. Tonight has been long.”

She suppressed a smile. Always like this, even in Skyhold. The Inquisitor’s chambers were granted utmost privacy, though she suspected not a lot of agents could sneak past his raven either way.

“What do you think of Inquisitor Lavellan?” he asked.

Her head rose in surprise at the question, though his gaze remained on the fire as if it danced the answers for him. She thought the question over.

Easy smiles and kind yet heavy eyes. He tried to remember names and faces even when there was no need to, and he knew her son’s name, her wife’s name, remembered the small things in daily life. He was both an overwhelming yet a barely felt presence. Searing light or shadowy whisper — no in-between.

Dangerous.

Shelter.

She regarded the god before her, the orange outline of his form from the flames, and smiled at the similarities.

At her extended silence, he said, “There is no right or wrong answer. I am simply curious.”

“Apologies, it was just somewhat unexpected. I’m not certain where to begin.”

“How is he as a leader?”

“Competent,” she said. “And attentive. Everything runs as it should and any complaints we present is heard and addressed. On an interpersonal level, he’s…” Her eyes and voice softened. “He cares. He does his best to interact with those working for him and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.” She eyed the moon outside the window, high and distant in the sky. Was Ahmael sleeping alright? Hopefully Krista wasn’t too worn out. He was difficult to put to sleep sometimes. She fiddled with her locket, already missing her family. It was fine. They would return to Skyhold tomorrow.

“Why did you join me?” he asked.

Her nervousness returned. Was this a test of allegiance? To determine where her loyalty lay if it came down to him and the Inquisitor?

Because Samara didn’t know her answer.

To his current question though, she had one. “I want a world where my son can grow up without having to debase himself to please others just to survive.” Her grip tightened around the locket. “I want us to live without fear, without constant vigilance. I… I want us to have a home.”

“Do you truly believe I can deliver that?” he asked, soft.

“I do,” she said. He came when nobody else did. Answered when nobody else would. Not an absent Maker. He could do it; he was powerful enough. “I don’t want to be above anybody. I just want to stop being beneath.”

“Inquisitor Lavellan wishes to give the Dales and Arlathan back to the elves.”

Her head snapped up at that.

“He has been somewhat successful tonight. He has given Briala the title of Marquise.”

“Briala is an impressive woman,” she admitted, “but too embroiled in Orlais’ Game. I cannot be sure of her intentions, though she has done some good for those in the alienages.”

But Arlathan?

“His promise is a grand one,” he said.

“Not quite as grand as yours,” she said. The complete restoration of the elves.

He chuckled. “No, but what you wish aligns more with his vision.”

“Which is?”

“A home. A place to call yours.”

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat.

“Compared to mine, it seems almost humble,” he said.

“But could he do it?” she asked, eyes downcast, heart aching. Unlike some of the others who wished to see the elves above, to once again be at the seat of power, all she wanted was a peaceful life. Where who and all they were wouldn’t narrow down to the shape of their ears. “Furthermore, will you let him do it?”

His grip tightened around whatever he held in his hand.

“I cannot fail,” he said and his head bowed. “And I do not doubt his ability. He will find a way, somehow, but time is not on his side. Neither is it on mine.” That last part he mumbled to himself, but she managed to catch and make sense of it. Samara frowned.

“Is everything alright?” she found herself asking. Wait, shit, was she allowed to ask that?

He paused and she tensed. Did she overstep?

But he only shook his head and gave her a small smile over his shoulder.

“You have a good heart,” he said and she blinked. “Your wish is humble and true. I suggest that if the time comes when you must choose who to give your allegiance to… I suggest you choose him.”

Samara stared at him, or maybe she gaped. Was she gaping? _Close your mouth, fool!_

“I— I’m sorry?” she asked.

“A mere suggestion. The choice is ultimately yours.”

“He could join you,” she blurted out. “You and him… Together you could be unstoppable.”

A soft, amused noise left him. Laughed at a joke she wasn’t privy to. She pushed on because it turned out there _was_ a risk taker within her, who would have thought?

“If you tell him the truth, I think… If you make him understand…”

“I cannot enforce understanding, nor can I demand it. And I doubt he would welcome my truth.”

“Because he’s Dalish? You think he will distrust you?”

He was silent again and Maker, she should really get going before she offended him.

“No,” he said though he sounded unconvinced. “Although…” And he was lost in his thoughts once again. He shook his head as if clearing his mind. “But I am keeping you. Go on. You have early duties tomorrow and I would not wish to deprive you of well-needed rest. Our dear Inquisitor does that enough for the Inquisition combined.”

A true enough sentiment. She laughed despite herself.

“Good evening, then,” she said. “I wish you a good rest.”

“Good evening.”

She shifted into a bird and flew out the window, but not before she looked back a final time and saw him staring at the items he held in his hands.

Wooden wolves.

* * *

“I need tea,” was Briala’s response after he told her the true story about Fen’Harel and his current plans (though he omitted the part about Felassan). She slumped in her seat.

“He let you keep some of the eluvians. Maybe he’s having a change of heart.”

“There’s no use hoping he would help us, is there?”

Lavellan had no answer for that. None that he’d be certain of, anyway.

“I offered,” he murmured. “It’s there if he wants to take it.”

“To help the elves?”

“To give us a home,” he said. “I told him I wanted to return the Dales and Arlathan to the elves. That I wanted us to have a home, a place we can call our own.” He leaned back in his seat, heavy, weary. “I’m pretty sure he thought I was as stupid as I thought him.”

“That _is_ a large promise,” Briala returned, soft.

“I suppose you probably think me stupid too.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a mocking one. “Maybe. But I am, too. Freedom is won, Inquisitor. Chains never break quietly. Let them mock and call us stupid. Maybe our dreams won’t be realised in our lifetime, but we’ve planted the seeds.”

And maybe, partly, that was why Solas had trouble letting it go. Besides the guilt and obligation to right his wrongs, he couldn’t trust the future, and Lavellan couldn’t fault him for that. He was scared too. Scared that his vision for the elves would die with them. Lavellan only hoped Solas didn’t give them a chance out of some misguided form of pity because if so, Lavellan would yell at him until he went deaf.

“There’s still the issue of our people’s safety,” said Briala. His heart still gave a little excited kick every time she said _our_. “Fen’Harel may have allowed us access to some eluvians but the network is still his. We could be in danger.”

Lavellan shook his head. “He’s preoccupied with Corypheus at the moment.”

He would like to believe Solas wouldn’t hurt them, but he was capable of ruthlessness when pushed, not out of malice or spite, but out of a misguided sense of duty. A man who sacrificed and sacrificed and sacrificed. He would chew off his limbs and cut off his tail without hesitation. 

But the call for a sacrifice never ended. Once you’ve offered yourself wholly, what else was left to give besides what wasn’t yours?

“For now, tread carefully,” he said. “I’ll try to figure out what I can and let you know if you’re in danger or not.” 

“I always tread carefully.” She crossed her arms. “And you showed that he employs agents. It’s possible one of mine is also one of his and relayed the pass to him.”

“Without a doubt,” he said. “You know who you’ve told the pass to?”

“A handful. Though none of them know you’ve helped me connect this to Fen’Harel.” She scowled. “But the spy from earlier saw you with me. Is he going to be happy about you running off to help me?”

“I’ve already declared my intentions and I don’t care for his approval either way.” Lavellan laughed nervously. “Although, he doesn’t know I’m onto him and his plans. I need to be careful. I’ve gotten sloppy tonight.”

She pushed the macaron box even further towards him. “Take the rest. They may be your last meal.”

“Are you naturally this dreary?”

She smiled. “It’s the court custom. Anticipate the worst and greet it with cake.”

“Gods, I hate Orlesian court,” he muttered. Took another anyway.

“That’s your sixth,” she observed.

“If you’re going to judge me, do it quietly.”

“I’ve already been doing that. I find it’s not as fun as doing it aloud.”

He huffed as he chewed. Still, she was right. He should have been more careful in the first place. For all that he relied on complacency to fell his enemies, he hadn’t realised it had crept up on him too.

“But in all seriousness, Inquisitor,” said Briala with a worried twist to her lips. “Are you in danger?”

“I’m in more danger from Corypheus than Fen’Harel right now,” he said, propping his chin on his hand as he frowned at the flames. “But don’t concern yourself with worrying about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Well then, I’ll throw that right back at you. Don’t worry about us,” she said and he blinked at her. “I have a handle on things here, we’ll manage. Worry about yourself and your Inquisition for now. I’ll make use of the time and power you’ve given me.”

One hunt at a time. He nodded and smiled gratefully.

“I’ll try,” he said. “And before I forget, I saved one of yours in the Royal Wing. She says you sent her there to die because she knew the truth about you and Celene.” Her hand clenched on the tabletop and he tilted his head. “Is that accusation true?”

She sighed. “Yes. I am doubted enough, Inquisitor, and my efforts continue being reduced as the result of a falling out with Celene. And now I was granted the title of Marquise. Some may say that is favouritism, and if Celene does claim that it was your idea, my efforts will be downplayed even further.”

He stared at the dancing orange glow reflecting on the metal lid. “Rumours will always persist. They will call you pet, lap dog, all sorts of things, and the best way to spite them is to succeed despite that. And if your efforts are downplayed, all the better. Let them underestimate you. So no more sending agents to die willy-nilly, yes? You’ve lost enough people tonight.”

Perhaps the Inquisition could help set up proper funeral rites for the dead servants because Orlais sure as fuck wouldn’t.

Briala yawned. She grumbled after and rubbed her eyes.

“Go rest, Briala,” he said. “We’ll leave these concerns for the morning. If you need to contact me privately without interference from any agents after we return to Skyhold, just send a letter and ask. I’ll send a letter back using my raven. Only send letters through her if you want to guarantee complete privacy.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said. “I’ve worked with red-crests before. They are intelligent, but I’ve never seen something of that extent.”

“I don’t know either,” he said. “But she can be trusted, that much I know.”

“She could be a shapeshifter.”

“Doubt it,” he said. Lavellan knew she wasn’t, but once more, he couldn’t access the rest of the information. He stood. “In any case, we’re both exhausted. It’s time to retire for tonight. I know you still have a lot of questions and some of them I can’t answer, but I’ll try to keep in touch.”

She stood as well and nodded. “I appreciate it. Thank you again, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Lavellan whistled for Vergala who returned and perched herself on his shoulder. Briala walked him back to the Guest Quarters where they shared a resolute look before parting with a nod.

Once in the relative safety of his bedroom, he slumped against the door with a sigh and knocked his head back against it. This wasn’t how he thought the night would end.

“Lavellan rest,” said Vergala.

“For once, I agree.”

His belongings had been returned to his room, so small mercies.

And so, Lavellan discarded his armour for tonight. He slipped the cuffs off his ears, removed the bloodstained uniform (there had to be a way to clean and salvage it), and ran a bath in the bathroom. Again, he only stayed briefly to avoid certain memories.

By the time he was dried and wrapped in the Orlesian robes set aside for him, Vergala had fallen asleep. He smiled at her and extinguished the candles.

He fell face-first on the bed and grunted. Orlesians and their gods-forsaken too-soft beds—

Lavellan rolled onto his back and stared at the canopy of the bed, missing his bedroom in Skyhold.

What the hell was Solas doing? Did their conversation on the balcony really…

He curled up on his side. Despite his better judgement, his heart still skipped, and hope dared to peer from behind the heavy curtains he had draped over his heart. His mind returned to their dance. Lavellan still felt the phantom weight of Solas’ hands on his hips, the warmth of him even through the layers of clothes.

“You never make it easy, do you?” he murmured, eyes sliding shut.

The Fade beckoned.

The Wolf waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! BEFORE YOU DO ANYTHING ELSE! CHECK OUT [CHILDISH_MIDGET'S ART](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635167209567764480/bashes-down-your-door-and-shoves-this-in-your), THEY DREW A VERY PAINFUL SCENE PLEASE LOOK AT IT I NEED SOMEONE TO CRY WITH.
> 
> And didn't you know? This isn't a solavellan fic anymore, it's lavellan x macarons. Sorry Solas. 
> 
> But in all seriousness, _oof_ , Lavellan almost got caught. Say thank you, Well of Sorrows.
> 
> (Poor Lavellan ended the night getting laid in the first timeline but all he gets now are problems.)
> 
> Solas and Lavellan: *opening their mouth to talk about each other*  
> Samara and Briala, sensing how smitten the man is within .5 seconds: ~why the fuck u lyin? Why u always lyin? mmmh my god, stop fuckin lyin~
> 
> (Psst, wanna see how the final confrontation with Solas went in the past timeline? --> [Prima Luce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964/chapters/64468270))
> 
>   
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ma Venuralas:** My Deity[⇧]  
> [2] **Is jueolas:** He will know[⇧]


	46. Poison in power's chalice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that's mostly dream sequence and only has solas and lavellan? In MY fanfic? It's more likely than you think.

_the truth on your palms—_

* * *

Ballroom music drifted in the air, a string of notes enticing him through the Winter Palace’s cold, opulent corridors. A blue door awaited at the end, the corridor twisting behind him as he passed, gold and marble melting. The music grew louder. It did not sound Orlesian. 

Lavellan pushed the door open.

The ballroom before him was just as Orlesian as the music. 

Spirits and elves alike meandered through the large chamber, dressed in silks and satins and robes with a myriad of colours — some shifting hues, others alive with ornate, moving patterns. He eyed the ceiling with its mural of sweeping patterns and vague landscapes. An orange spirit drifted past. Not an actual spirit but the echo of one.

Everything here was an echo.

Lavellan frowned and moved into the room, found a lower level dedicated for dancing. Elves spun and waltzed in perpetual motion to the gentle music, fabric spinning, fluttering, never catching around them. Lovers held each other close. Pressed themselves tight, whispered intimacies into each other’s ears. Others plotted, eyes shifty.

He navigated the upper floor, garbed in his military uniform. Nobody paid him any heed. Nobles were gathered in seating areas, scheming, tittering, gossiping. Tendrils of light and magic wove in the air.

A slave poured wine into a noble’s cup, the ink of her vallaslin coloured; the mark of a slave owned by an Evanuris or one of the highest ranking of the priests and nobility.

Across the room, there stood Fen’Harel leaning against a column, his gaze following Lavellan.

Ass could have at least taken him somewhere nice. He’d had enough of court.

Decadence hung heavy and heady, the air saturated with sordid secrets and schemes, extravagance and excess evident in the architecture, the clothes, the mannerisms.

Glass crashed. Almost lost beneath the music, soft as if meant to be overlooked, but Lavellan looked. A slave crouched and immediately gathered the shattered pieces while her mistress yelled, the other nobles around them shaking their heads. The noblewoman raised her hand. Lavellan moved without thinking, put himself between her and the slave, and caught her hand.

Or would have, anyway.

Her hand phased through him, connected with the slave girl’s face, and the force of it flung her onto the floor.

“You stained my robes!” she shrieked. He glowered. 

“It’s a fucking droplet at the edge,” he said, not that she heard. “You’ll live.”

He crouched in front of the servant, her hands frantic as she gathered the broken shards of glass and didn’t stop even as it tore her skin. Lavellan couldn’t even offer a hand to help.

“Get out of my sight,” said the noblewoman and waved her away. The slave fled.

He stood and beheld the ballroom. It was beautiful, certainly. Magical. Fantastical. Perfection. 

Rotten.

Everywhere he looked, rotten.

He retreated to the sides, in the shadows, in the forgotten and unseen yet familiar corners. Lavellan made his way towards Fen’Harel and swiped the goblet Fen’Harel had been holding. He took a swig.

Nothing. 

“Listen, ass, if you’re going to dump me here, at least grant me the courtesy of giving me Fade alcohol.”

Fen’Harel raised a brow but Lavellan couldn’t look at him. Not yet. Not after…

“Do you not like it?” he asked. “Your fellow Dalish can only dream in fragments of experiencing this.”

“If I wanted to drown in the poison of an empire, I have two sparkling choices in the waking world.” He poured the fake wine out of the goblet and watched it dissolve into smoke. “Oh, wait! I’m already sleeping in one of them. Fancy that.”

Lavellan sighed, weary, and finally looked at him. His face still eluded Lavellan, still hiding. Memories of the ill-advised kiss returned and clenched his chest.

“What’s this about?” Lavellan asked. “A taunt? A mockery? A smug declaration?” 

Fen’Harel’s gaze saddened. “Never,” he murmured. “I respect you far too much for that.”

“Oh yes, really felt the respect when you started with tongue,” he said dryly.

He cleared his throat. “I… About that, I…” He looked away and closed his eyes. “I am sor—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” hissed Lavellan through gritted teeth, his grip around the goblet tightening. “Don’t you dare apologise. Don’t treat me like another one of your regrets, your mistakes. I was no helpless thing. I kissed you back. Don’t you _dare_.”

Fen’Harel stared at him, wide-eyed. “You— If I overstepped—”

“If you overstepped, I would have punched you so hard the dream would have spat us both back into the waking world. I am capable of voicing my aversion.” He relaxed his grip on the goblet and stared at the bottom of it, unable to hold onto his irritation for long. Too exhausted. It was not a topic he wanted to pursue either. The best course of action would be to talk about this, of course, but let Lavellan run away for a little longer. “If not a taunt, what’s this then?”

Fen’Harel considered him, but he must have sensed Lavellan’s unwillingness to pursue that conversation because he looked back out at the sea of nobles.

“A trial,” he said.

Lavellan snorted. “Oh? Did I pass?”

“It is not that kind of trial.”

He eyed Fen’Harel, garbed in his armour though it seemed more ceremonial than practical. It fit him; he carried it well. Yet he looked so uncomfortable. Like balancing a crown atop your head. Like Lavellan sitting on his throne for judgements. 

“You don’t have to do that,” said Lavellan and Fen’Harel frowned at him.

“Do what?”

He nodded at Fen’Harel’s attire. “That. There’s no need to keep up appearances. Go change into something more comfortable.”

Fen’Harel smiled, eyes squinting as he did. “I could be more comfortable wearing nothing.”

“I promise to keep my gaze above the shoulders,” he scoffed.

“More chivalry in your smallest finger than all Chevaliers combined.”

“That’s not very hard to do. A nug’s smallest nail has more chivalry than all Chevaliers combined.”

“Do nugs have nails?” he wondered.

Lavellan frowned in befuddlement. “I’m… not sure? How did we get onto this topic?”

“It was your doing.”

“Shut up and get changed.”

Fen’Harel huffed, looked torn between being amused or offended and so he was stuck in the middle with an uncertain frown and a half-smile. Still, wisps of magic orbited him, and his clothes shifted into humbler robes, less ornate, nigh simple save for the embroidery embellishing the edges. A wolf’s pelt cloaked his shoulders. He relaxed imperceptibly. 

“Would you like to dress in something more comfortable too?” he asked Lavellan.

Lavellan glanced down at himself, comfortable enough in his attire but…

“Just give me my daggers and I’m golden.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes.”

He laughed but nevertheless, Lavellan’s daggers materialised on his hips and their familiar weight removed some of his unease. Better. 

Cheers from the dance floor caught his ears and he turned his head, frowning at the scene before him, gaze following the servants scurrying in the shadows, unseen, unheard. A few watched the nobles with a burning in their eyes — familiar. 

> _“You told me I could come to you for anything,” I say._
> 
> _Dirthamen smiles. “And I meant it.”_
> 
> _“Then I have a request.”_
> 
> _“This is a rare occasion. You rarely ask for anything.” He closes his book and it flies back to its shelf. He clasps his hands over the desk. “What is it?”_
> 
> _“I wish to have a small and specialised team.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen stares. “To lead?”_
> 
> _“Yes.”_
> 
> _“How come?”_
> 
> _“While I am still fully capable of handling the missions you assign, it would be more efficient to have others who can undertake another mission concurrently.”_
> 
> _“I suppose I can choose a few of my agents.”_
> 
> _“With all due respect, ma Venuralas, I would not trust them to handle the missions you give me. Tasks you assign require a certain kind of precision that your agents have not cultivated.”_
> 
> _He raises a brow. “My dear raven, are you boasting?”_
> 
> _“I am stating a fact,” I say. “I’ve no use for boasting. I am your best and you know this. Why else would you let me handle such important tasks?” It has become a subject of jealousy among the others too, which is another reason why I’m not willing to work with those who may have hidden agendas. No, I require a team free of power plays. “I wish to assemble a group of people that I have personally handpicked and trained. There will be no vying for positions, no vying for power. They will serve with unquestionable loyalty.”_
> 
> _“To whom?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “You or me?”_
> 
> _“Both.”_
> 
> _“And who will fill the ranks of this… specialised team?”_
> 
> _“Leave that to me.”_
> 
> _“You are asking me to put a lot of faith in you.”_
> 
> _I blink, tilting my head. “Ma Venuralas, you have already placed your faith in me. I am merely calling on it.”_
> 
> _He laughs and rests his chin over interlocked fingers, a challenge shimmering in his violet eyes._
> 
> _“Prove it is not misplaced.”_
> 
> _I bow my head. “ Vin, ma Venuralas [1].”_
> 
> _They look upon me, eyes swimming with a mixture of despair, anguish, subjugation, vengeance. Good. Let the fire within serve as the furnace and the smelter and I will give them the whetstone with which to polish and sharpen their blades._
> 
> _Outstretch my hand. Give them purpose. Be more. Be unseen, unheard, and watch their marks wither. Spy, kill, watch, collect._
> 
> _They take my hand._
> 
> _I will build us from the shadows and I will give them wings._
> 
> _The El’ras’amelan [2]._
> 
> _“Slaves,” says Dirthamen, smiling, his eyes shimmering as he regards the first members of the El’amelan training in the courtyard below. “Some are even from other courts.”_
> 
> _“They are yours now,” I say._
> 
> _He turns to me, smile widening. “You are the one who has raised them. No, they are yours.”_
> 
> _“They are not,” I say again. “They are with me. I do not hold their threads; we share the same. I will make us your strongest thread, and we will tangle ourselves within the empire.” My zeal unfurls within my chest, aglow in my heart. I kneel and take his hand, placing a kiss upon the ring on his finger._
> 
> _Dirthamen turns the hand I am holding and tips my chin up. Still smiling. Always smiling at me. “Kneel like this for no one else.”_
> 
> _I smile back, but wry. “Not even your mother?”_
> 
> _“You are not hers. Fly away from the rest, peck their fingers if you wish, but know which hand to return to, my little raven.”_

“What are you thinking about?” asked Fen’Harel. Lavellan snapped back into focus, brought everything back to clarity. 

“The past,” said Lavellan, lightheaded. Not a lie, technically. He once again shook off the devotion and pushed it away into the darkest corners of his mind. Not that it would stay there for long.

So the El’ras’amelan had comprised of slaves he had handpicked and… saved. Was that saving? Would that count as saving? From one chain to another.

“Where do you go?”

Lavellan blinked at him. “What?”

“When you fall into sudden quiet, your eyes grow distant as if you are not here. Where do you go?”

“I don’t go anywhere,” said Lavellan with a frown.

Fen’Harel watched him in the same manner Solas did earlier. Puzzled over a puzzle that was not a puzzle in the first place. 

No, that wasn’t quite true anymore, was it? Lavellan had become a puzzle to himself too and here he was painstakingly gathering the scattered pieces of himself.

“So then,” asked Lavellan because he had no wish to dwell on that, “what test is this?”

He scrutinised Lavellan for a second longer, before he transferred that scrutiny to their setting. A different song started. The dance changed. Lavellan regarded the light fixtures with their golden arms twisted into elaborate and delicate patterns, luminous glass vines suspended along their winding length, scattering the gentle yet vivid illumination.

“It merely allows me a glimpse into the person,” said Fen’Harel. “Often it reveals their priorities. What they first notice, what initial action they take, what they seek, how they behave; it all plays a part.”

“And what has this revealed?”

“Nothing I do not already know.” He eyed Lavellan, piercing. “Though I do wonder about the things I do _not_ know.”

Lavellan held his gaze, level. So he was to be interrogated in his dreams as well? What an annoying wolf.

“Fascinating. Me too,” said Lavellan. “Were the eluvians your doing?”

His lips twitched. “Oh? I had not expected you to be so straightforward.” Would it kill him to just say yes?

“Why leave three?”

“You won’t ask about why I took them in the first place?”

Asshole answering questions with questions—

“It sounds to me like you want to tell me but you’re trying to look nonchalant and unbothered by it so you’re waiting for me to ask.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look, I’m a little tired of secrets for tonight. I’ve had my fill.” He’d had his fill since day one. “I’m begging you for truth at this stage.”

Fen’Harel said nothing. Lavellan looked away.

A trio of nobles walked past, tittering delicately, the ribbons of their gowns and robes trailing along with the scent of their perfume. The fabric phased through his arm and he jumped as it did. Who was the ghost here? Them or the echoes?

“I want to see if I can be proven wrong.”

Lavellan glanced at Fen’Harel, eyes wide, but it was his turn to look away.

“What?” Lavellan asked, faint.

Fen’Harel pushed off the column and turned. “Walk with me,” he said.

Lavellan cast the ballroom a final look before he walked beside him, frowning. With a wave of Fen’Harel’s hand, a door manifested in the wall ahead. He opened it and gestured Lavellan inside. 

The sudden burst of sunlight had him squinting and he shielded his eyes with his arm. 

Once the light became more forgiving, Lavellan lowered his arms and found himself in a sprawling, well-tended garden on a floating isle. He looked behind him but found only Fen’Harel, the door they had walked through gone. The sunlight veiled them with buoyant warmth, the air crisp and shimmering with lost, untapped magic, and Lavellan breathed easier away from the asphyxiating curtain of the ballroom and court.

“Is this another test?” asked Lavellan.

Fen’Harel brushed his fingers against the flowers from a low-hanging tree. Above them, iridescence sheened the clouds.

“No,” said Fen’Harel. “You seemed miserable in the ballroom. I would be remiss to keep you in a place which makes you unhappy.” His gaze softened as it swept across the isle and its vivid carpet of grass and cheery flowers, the trees chiming with every breath of wind, the crystal bridges connecting the isle to the others. A valley stretched below them. “And I suspect you would appreciate this far better than the opulence.”

“How… nice of you,” said Lavellan, frowning.

The corner of his lips curled. “Am I not always nice?”

Lavellan frowned deeper in lieu of an answer.

“You suspect a hidden agenda?” Fen’Harel asked.

“Would I be correct?”

He looked away. “Come, let us walk.”

Lavellan willed his shoes off and so here he was strolling barefoot across a floating garden with the Dread Wolf. The silence was companionable but wrought with apprehension on Lavellan’s end. 

What did he mean he wanted to see if he could be proven wrong?

The traitorous lump of hope which had taken root in Lavellan’s heart like a weed refused to wither.

“You’re stalling,” said Lavellan.

“Oh?” asked the Dread Wolf breezily. The grass was cool as it pressed underfoot. “Am I not allowed to enjoy your company without any ulterior motives?”

“You’re allowed,” he said, “except, that’s not really what’s happening right now, is it?”

Lavellan stopped walking. Fen’Harel walked a few more paces before he stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. The wind whipped at Lavellan’s hair. Fen’Harel turned to look at Lavellan over his shoulders, eyes the colour of crystal grace. 

It was a little strange meeting in the daylight like this. Lavellan had grown accustomed to their moonlit encounters. 

Fen’Harel looked away again, beholding the valley below them, and all Lavellan could do was stare at his back.

“May I tell you a story?” Fen’Harel asked.

“Truth or fiction?”

“Does it matter, at this point?” he murmured, more to himself than Lavellan.

“It matters to me.”

Fen’Harel turned to face him fully with a considering expression. “It is a story you will wish was fiction. What do you know of the Evanuris?”

“That they were locked away by Fen’Harel.” Lavellan held his gaze. “That the rest of them murdered Mythal.”

His eyes saddened. “Yes. And how do you connect those two events?”

Though Lavellan knew, he still played along. “Either you locked them away for murdering Mythal, you played a part in her murder and later betrayed the rest of the Evanuris, you didn’t lock them away, or those two are not connected.”

Fen’Harel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And which do you believe?”

“I believe I’d rather hear the truth from you instead of conjecturing.”

“Do you believe I would tell you the truth?”

“I doubt you’d go through all of this trouble and keep stalling this much just to lie to me.” Lavellan studied the rose bush nearby and approached it, ghosted his fingers over the stem and the cruel thorns. “If I must, I’ll read between the lines.” He looked at Fen’Harel. “But I get the feeling we’re both a little tired of lying tonight.”

Fen’Harel looked away and watched the passing clouds. A stretch of silence. Lavellan brushed his fingers against the rose petals, their red so deep that he feared his fingers would stain.

“A Mother once sought counsel from a spirit in the Fade,” began Fen’Harel, “for she faced difficult decisions as she cared for her many children. The spirit was only happy to provide. After all, that was its purpose; to accrue and deliver wisdom and knowledge to those who sought it. For many centuries, it had advised her.”

“A Wisdom spirit,” Lavellan deduced.

“Yes,” said Fen’Harel. “But the problems with her children grew and she already had much to attend to. And so, she called for the spirit to take form so that it may both counsel her or take matters into its own hands if she could not. Wisdom had its reservations, but inevitably, it had grown to love her in a way only a spirit could.” He smiled hollowly. “With utter and unconditional abandon.”

 _“He first loved without reserve,”_ Lavellan had told him in the baths.

“Love borne of devotion,” Lavellan murmured, the taste of said devotion stale at the back of his throat.

Fen’Harel frowned at him. “Indeed,” he agreed. “It took form. A difficult feat without a pre-prepared vessel, but the zeal of its dedication became its tether. _It_ became _he_.”

“Without a pre-prepared vessel?” he asked.

“Bringing a spirit into physicality is a dangerous endeavour for the spirit. It could shatter or it could twist. If a spirit wishes to take form, a vessel must be prepared for it. The elves would create bodies from the earth, bound by magic, sometimes blood. When the spirit inhabits it, the vessel becomes flesh and bone. There are many other methods for a spirit to gain physicality, though I suspect that will be a talk for another time.”

“Sorry, I side-tracked you.” How did he manifest for Dirthamen? Was a vessel prepared for him or was it through the other methods Fen’Harel mentioned?

> _Pain, pain, this is agony. But hold on. Hold on. He’s on this end._

Lavellan suspected he had manifested in the same manner as Wisdom.

“Never apologise for curiosity, vun’lin.” Fen’Harel smiled and it reached his eyes, this time. “I admire that about you.”

Lavellan stared at him over the rose bush. 

Fen’Harel continued. “Wisdom had to acquaint himself with the world first. Spirits then could not bear to manifest as anything older than a child. They must begin the arduous task of learning how to be physical, to care for the needs of their new bodies, to interact with the world so vastly different from the Fade.” Another breeze swept past and the leaves of the rose bush brushed against his wrists. “She sent him away to a small town north where he grew and learned. Prodigious at magic and combat. He had grown cocky in that time.” His smile turned amused. “So sure of the world. When she returned for him, she bid him to travel the land for half a century and return to her.”

“Did he choose a name?” Lavellan asked.

Fen’Harel pursed his lips. “Eventually,” he said.

Lavellan fixed him with an intent look. “What was it?”

“A reminder and a warning,” was all Fen’Harel said on the matter. Solas. Pride. “He returned with the knowledge he had amassed from the Fade and his travels, expecting to become advisor to her once more.” His expression turned embittered. “Alas, it was not wisdom he would give but orders. She branded him as hers and assigned him to lead and command their defensive forces. In his wisdom, he knew all that would net was resentment among the soldiers so he proposed to enlist as the others would and ascend the ranks on his own merit. She at least heeded the request.”

> _“Never contest a god,” teases Dirthamen._
> 
> _“I was not.”_
> 
> _“You have ‘I disagree’ written all over your face.” He smiles. “Come now, what ails you?”_
> 
> _I cross my arms and my fingers dig into them. “He is Wisdom.”_
> 
> _“Yes?”_
> 
> _It’s not right for her to assign him to a task so diametric to his nature, but I hold my tongue. “Nothing. Apologies. It’s… an unorthodox choice, is all.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen eyes me though his look isn’t one of displeasure. “Indeed. Who knows the ways of Mother’s mind? But if I have learned anything, it’s that her outlandish choices tend to work out in the end.”_
> 
> But at what cost? _I almost ask but again, I hold my tongue_. 

“He served faithfully and devotedly over the centuries,” said Fen’Harel, “and he climbed the ranks and earned his soldiers’ loyalty. But the taller the golden spires of their kingdom grew, the deeper the hidden trenches of corruption carved. Wisdom tired of serving a system which perpetuated the atrocities committed against those he was sworn to defend.”

They stopped at a weeping willow perched near the edge of the isle and he parted the curtain of leaves, letting Lavellan pass first. 

“I’m impressed he lasted that long,” Lavellan said, couldn’t keep the irritation out of it.

“Oh? Why is that?”

Lavellan perched on a low-hanging branch, swinging his legs as he stared down at Fen’Harel. Well, when he said stared down, it was nothing significant. Fen’Harel was tall.

Did Solas get disoriented once he diminished his height to better fit in? What was he like the first time he did it? Lavellan suppressed a smile at the mental image of Solas straining to reach something he would have had no trouble retrieving before.

“It must have been draining,” explained Lavellan. “And difficult. For much of his life, he’d done what he loved which was amass experience and wisdom, then he was suddenly forced to do something which disagreed with his nature. What’s worse, he had been branded as—” His lips twisted and he turned away. “Branded as her slave when he had been made to believe they would remain equals.”

It was quiet once again. Lavellan stole a glance at Fen’Harel who looked at him with an unreadable glimmer in his eyes.

“You are right. The centuries took their toll, until one day, he had had enough. He broke his sword and threw the pieces at the All-Father’s feet in impetuous outrage. The All-Father burned the soldiers still loyal to Wisdom as punishment.” The glimmer in his eyes hardened. “In Wisdom’s fury, he searched for a way to burn the mark of devotion off his face. And succeeded.”

“Is it difficult to remove the vallaslin?”

“You misunderstand. They were not merely ink upon skin. They are marks charged with magic, especially those with coloured ink. A master could send a surge of magic through the marks to incapacitate their slave. It is a way of controlling them. Removing it took a certain precision, and it did not come without pain.”

A chill shot through Lavellan. He hugged himself.

“After freeing himself, Wisdom upset those in power through small acts of rebellion to humiliate them.” He smiled wryly. “Not unlike your friend. Rather, Friend. Uppercase.”

“The Friends of Red Jenny?”

“Something similar,” he said. “Soon, there were those who wished to join him. The Evanuris mockingly declared him a god of tricks and treachery to discourage it, so that the People would fear him instead.” His smile grew and he stepped closer, his head level with Lavellan’s navel. “And in dark corners,” he murmured, imparting his little secret, “they would whisper, _Fen’Harel_ in both ridicule and fear.”

Another breeze rustled the leaves.

“You made it yours,” Lavellan said.

Fen’Harel cradled Lavellan’s cheek, ran his thumb over the silver ear cuff. “You understand.”

Lavellan held himself still, otherwise he would lean into the touch. “And you became a sanctuary.”

He withdrew his hand and Lavellan ignored the cold vacuum it left behind. 

“I did not set out to be one, nor did I have a plan. I rejected worship and reviled offerings. Though being declared an Evanuris had placed me in a unique position. I could answer simple prayers from the People that the other Evanuris would not otherwise deign to acknowledge.” 

Was that why Tarasylan was so… cold? Fen’Harel actively discouraged worshippers that way. 

“So _are_ you an Evanuris?” asked Lavellan.

“No more than you are the Herald of Andraste,” he said.

Lavellan’s eyes saddened, understood too well. “Then I’m sorry.”

Fen’Harel stared at him, searched his eyes, before he bowed his head slightly. “As am I.” 

Was he sorry about his unwilling apotheosis or sorry about Lavellan’s elevation to divine prophet because of his actions? Or something else? Knowing Solas, it could be all of the above and more. 

“Many came to me to be freed from their vallaslin. Word spread. More and more turned to me for protection, for liberation, and little by little, my tricks became opposition. But my actions were no more than an irritant. I was but a mere nuisance to the Evanuris and their conquest for power. On my own, I was not enough.”

“You had help,” Lavellan deduced. 

“The false gods had to be stopped,” said Fen’Harel. “Dirthamen and Mythal offered their assistance.”

Lavellan almost fell off the branch. His heart pounded, mouth drying, struggled to keep his breathing even. Dirthamen helped Fen’Harel? Was that why Lavellan helped Fen’Harel?

_No._

No?

No, it wasn’t. Lavellan frowned. What part did he play in that rebellion?

Furthermore— “Why would Mythal help you? You burned her mark off your face.”

Fen’Harel smiled. “And who do you think urged me to?”

That did _not_ ease Lavellan any. But he held his tongue. Again.

Fen’Harel’s smile faded. “But Dirthamen betrayed us.”

Lavellan did slip from the branch that time and Fen’Harel caught and lowered him gently onto the ground.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

He waved Fen’Harel off. “I’m fine. Dirthamen betrayed you? What do you mean he betrayed you?”

His expression turned stormy. “He revealed our plans to the rest of the Evanuris and they plotted in secret. By the time I found out, it was far too late.” He hung his head. “They had killed Mythal.”

Why would Dirthamen— Where was Lavellan during this? What did he— The thoughts clamoured for attention but he couldn’t pick which to listen to because none of them could finish, as if they hit a wall he couldn’t breach.

“I banished the false gods to the furthest reaches of the Fade and I created the Veil,” said Fen’Harel, voice now soft. “I thought it would save the People from them and their pointless war. With Mythal gone…” He laughed deprecatingly. “The Veil may have had the desired effect of banishing them, but it destroyed the elves. We who were so intrinsically tied to the Fade… Gone. Creating the Veil had taken much of my strength and I fell into a long sleep. When I awoke…”

Patches of sunlight slipped through the willow leaves and fell across them in bursts. Fen’Harel looked at Lavellan then, weary, heavy, despairing and lost. 

“Everything was gone,” he said. “I have destroyed my people.”

Lavellan’s hands fisted. “That’s not true,” he said. “We’re still here. We still endure.”

He feared it coming, and no matter how he thought himself ready, it still struck him when Fen’Harel gave him _that_ look. A fresh mixture of pity and doubt. 

“The elves are no longer as they were,” said Fen’Harel, morose. “They do not know and cannot comprehend what they have lost. _You_ do not comprehend what you have lost.”

A disbelieving and gutted exhale escaped him, turning into a single bark of laughter last minute. He knew _exactly_ what they lost. “You—”

“But I plan to amend my mistakes,” continued Fen’Harel. 

“How? Something stupid like undoing the Veil?” Lavellan cried. Fen’Harel gave him another meaningful look which was all the confirmation Lavellan needed. He was still going through with it. Another mad laughter burbled in his throat but it wouldn’t leave so it stayed stuck. “You’re serious? You’re inviting the gods you locked away, so they’re no doubt _pissing angry_ , back into this world?”

“I had plans,” said Fen’Harel.

“Are they as stupid as your current one?” he snapped. Rubbed his face. “Fenedhis, but you are a stupid fool. Wisdom, my ass!”

“Believe me,” he said dryly, “I know.”

“And forget the gods, you’d bring chaos upon the world.” And Fen’Harel had omitted the fact that his true goal was the reshaping of reality. So he could do… what? What did Fen’Harel plan to do once the elves had regained their magic and most of the world had been driven mad?

“I know,” Fen’Harel murmured. “But it must happen if the elves are to regain what they have lost.”

A frustrated noise scratched at the back of Lavellan’s throat. “Not at the cost of everyone else!”

“You said you wished to help the elves.”

“Helping them doesn’t mean I couldn’t give a flying fuck about the rest,” he snapped. “This world is—”

“This world is wrong,” Fen’Harel interrupted. “Born of my errors and mistakes. It does not understand that it was once more—”

“This world is different but that doesn’t make it any less important. It’s as different to the old world as the Fade is to the physical realm but that doesn’t invalidate—”

“You’re not listening—”

“Stop interrupting—”

“My mistakes are the reason why your people dwell in the fringes of society, why they toil and suffer underfoot, why the Dalish pass along stories twisting with each retelling, and why your precious people do not have a home!”

Lavellan feared he’d cut the skin of his palms from how tight he clenched his fists.

“We are not solely _your_ mistakes.” Lavellan stabbed his finger into Fen’Harel’s chest, teeth gnashing, face no doubt pulled into an ugly vehemence. “Maybe your actions started a chain of events but how we moved on, how we survived, how we continue to live afterwards is the result of _our_ actions. _Our_ fights. You may have set us on this path but you were not there for the journey. Who we became has nothing to do with you.”

He quieted at the diatribe. Lavellan hated it whenever Fen’Harel — Solas — fell quiet during his outbursts. He was in too much of a fit to read Fen’Harel properly. 

“But I suppose I should thank you,” Lavellan scoffed. “Ma serannas, Fen’Harel, for setting us on this path. You’ve taught us to spit back against a world who wished to see us beneath its heel. Nu sil’josem on’el ghi’len.[3]”

“You mock me,” he finally hissed.

A harsh laugh escaped him and he threw his head back as the bitter sound escaped. “Unfortunately, Wolf, I am entirely serious.”

Fen’Harel’s expression contorted into a fury Lavellan had only seen back in the days of old Elvhenan when Fen’Harel was still a young, tempestuous firebrand.

“This world is broken, is still breaking, and I will not sit idly by when I know I have the means to fix it.”

“At the cost of what? The end of the fucking world?”

“The world will end with or without my intervention,” Fen’Harel spat, the reverb of his voice amplifying as a sorry attempt to intimidate Lavellan. “And if I leave it be, I assure you, you would _wish_ I had torn the Veil down instead!”

Some of Lavellan’s ire vanished and his thoughts halted. Fen’Harel’s furious expression melted into shock.

That… What?

Asunara had said that Solas was trying to prevent a great danger but what was it? Was that it?

“What do you—?” Lavellan frowned, took a step forward, and Fen’Harel took one back. Out of instinct. Lavellan stopped. “You didn’t… mean to reveal that, did you?”

Innumerable emotions flashed in his eyes, all of them overwhelming, all of them unsaid and indecipherable, culminating into an expression that was _Solas_ in essence. 

I did not,” he said softly. “But you have a terrible habit of sweeping me away into revealing more than I should.”

“Is that my terrible habit or yours for succumbing?”

He smiled, pained. “Perhaps it is mine,” he conceded. “I have never been one for self-control, no matter how hard I try. You are a terrible force.”

Lavellan stared at him. “What’s happening to the world, lethallin?” Solas had never revealed this in his past life. Had never revealed this to anyone. 

Fen’Harel stared back, helpless.

“I will find myself answering you, won’t I?” he asked.

“One way or another,” agreed Lavellan. 

He shook his head. “Telling you the truth is a heavy burden.”

“You think I can’t handle it?”

“It matters not if you can or cannot. You will shoulder it regardless, heap it upon yourself with a complete disregard for your own wellbeing. I fear you will do what it takes to see it through so long as the cost is you and only you.”

“And that’s worse than your approach?”

“I do not want to lose you,” he snapped.

Lavellan clenched his fists again. “You’ll lose me anyway if you go through with this, you daft tit!”

They had already lost each other anyway.

“Not completely. There is a high possibility that you will survive the aftermath. Perhaps you will even find it better.”

Lavellan gave him a dark look. “Not if I stand against you.”

Fen’Harel returned it. “That is the outcome I feared.”

Another light breeze passed, made the dappled light dance across their faces. 

“So tell me,” said Lavellan. “Help me understand.” Hadn’t he pleaded like this last time, too? 

_“Help me understand,” he begged and reached for Solas who stepped back as if Lavellan’s mere touch would undo him._

Fen’Harel made to take another step back but Lavellan grabbed his wrist before he could and took another step into his space, reached up and cupped his cheek. 

Something within Fen’Harel crumbled. He hung his head, face scrunching in his grief, shoulders bowing under the weight of all he carried. Lavellan gathered him in his arms. He rested his head on Lavellan’s shoulders, buried it into the crook of his neck, and hesitantly wrapped his arms around Lavellan’s waist.

Lavellan melted into the embrace, closed his eyes and let the sunlight flicker behind his lids when the leaves swayed with the breeze.

“Please tell me,” whispered Lavellan, his hold around Fen’Harel tightening. Lies had poisoned them. Rage had twisted them. “I don’t want to fight you. I can’t do that. I’ll break. Please.”

“I doubt anything can break you,” he said into Lavellan’s neck, voice muffled.

“You can.” _You did_. Lavellan knew he could rebuild himself, but he’d prefer not to break again. You could only rebuild yourself so many times, losing a part of yourself each time.

“I do not have that much power over you, if at all. I would not wish to.”

“We didn’t wish for worship, yet we have it. You didn’t wish to have such a hold on me.” He turned his head so he could also bury his face into Fen’Harel’s neck. “And I didn’t either. Yet you have it.”

Their breaths synced in the silence.

Fen’Harel eventually lifted his head and pressed their foreheads together; shared a solemn, meaningful gaze. In the clear daylight, his eyes’ true colour was grey, pupils ringed with what a purple so deep it could have been brown, and Lavellan’s breath caught as it always did. 

“You have it too,” said Fen’Harel. “Power over me.”

“That seems dangerous.”

The space between them lessened.

“It is,” Fen’Harel murmured. 

“For you or for me?” Lavellan’s head slowly tilted of its own accord.

“Both.”

It was almost dreamlike, like this. Beneath the shade of the willow. No, not dreamlike, because it _was_ a dream. This was a dream, and this time, Solas had come as another fragment of himself and Lavellan couldn’t do this. 

Not like this. 

It pained him, but he let one hand go and gently pressed his fingers against Fen’Harel’s lips, stopped him from kissing Lavellan.

“The truth,” Lavellan whispered. “About what’s happening.” He met Fen’Harel’s gaze which held a mixture of sorrow and longing and Lavellan pushed through despite the heartache. “About yourself. I refuse to be your plaything. I will not break beneath your teeth.”

“Vun’lin… You are not, and have never been, a plaything to me.”

“Then the truth,” he said.

Fen’Harel pulled away, slow, as if an unseen force tethered them together. He straightened to his full height and stepped back.

“You would demand the truth of me when you will not even give it yourself?”

Lavellan’s arms fell back by his sides after they felt cold just lingering in empty space and embracing a ghost. He looked away, the guilt gnawing.

“Do you know why I tested you earlier?” asked Fen’Harel.

Lavellan looked back at him. “Why?”

“I wished to ask if you would like to join me.”

His lips pressed into a hard line. “You wanted to recruit me as your agent?”

“No,” he said, nigh insulted. “I would not have you under me, but beside me. As a partner.”

Lavellan stared at him, brows raising slightly. Which manner of partner did he mean? But the shock was quick to fade, and he was back to frowning.

“You know my answer.”

Fen’Harel chuckled without mirth. “Yes.”

“Why?” asked Lavellan. “Why ask me this?”

“A moment of weakness,” he said. “The similarities I have observed between you and I… And, I suppose, you are a better leader than I.”

Lavellan blinked. “What?”

“The rate at which you earn loyalty, and the fervour of it, is frightening. And impressive.”

“That’s not a good thing.”

“And your awareness of it is also what makes you a good leader. You understand that power is poison, not prestige.”

He shook his head. “You know I’ll have to decline you, either way.”

“I know.” 

“But I still want the truth. There must be another way, there has to be.”

The look he sent Lavellan was the very same he gave when he had bid Lavellan farewell. Left him cold and hurting and empty.

“If there is, I have not found it. And we are running out of time.”

“So tell me what’s going on. If I just understand, maybe we can think of something else together.” His face twisted into something almost pleading. “This is no longer Elvhenan, our state of awareness differs, and I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But this world has learned to live while you slept, please.” His voice cracked and Fen’Harel’s expression turned pained once more. “This is our world.”

“What about mine?” he asked, his composure breaking. “What would you do if this world you dearly loved and fought for suffered because of _your_ mistakes? In your attempts to help, what if instead, you deliver damnation? It is easy for you to disagree, easy for you to demand other ways, but you _do not know_ the weight of what I carry. You cannot even comprehend it.”

“No,” he agreed. “No, maybe I can’t, but just… lighten the weight you’re carrying. It is too much for one man alone to bear, god or no god.”

“Apologies. The last time I shared the burden, I received a knife in my back for my troubles.”

“You think I would do that?”

“Out of the Evanuris and discounting Mythal, Dirthamen was one of my most trusted. Yet where did that leave me?”

Lavellan bit back a grimace. “Fen’Harel, if I were to ever stab you, I promise you’ll see it coming.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“At least you’ll be ready. You’ll likely kill me first though. Or perhaps whatever ominous world-ending event that’ll happen either way will kill us both, but I’ll never know because you chose to keep me in the dark.”

“The burdens that you carry weigh enough, and I revealed too much already.” He stepped back.

Lavellan stepped forward. “I disagree. You’ve not revealed enough.”

“Focus on Corypheus first.”

“Fine,” Lavellan spat. “You’re not the only source of information I have. I’ll find other ways if you’re not going to give me the answer yourself.”

“Perhaps you’ll ask the Dalish and receive a fantasy for your troubles.”

“I’ll ask the Dalish and they will assist me as best as they can with what we managed to salvage. Wipe that disdain out of your tone.”

Fen’Harel’s look grew cold. Lavellan stood his ground.

“You are dying, you know?” said Fen’Harel, voice and expression turning dark. “The orb which imparted that mark upon your hand is mine. You cannot carry the power meant for a god. Not for long. Perhaps I will wait for you to die first so I will stand unopposed.”

The words wrenched his ribs inwards and twisted into his lungs and heart. A scornful and disbelieving breath of laughter left him.

“I am not your plaything, huh,” Lavellan echoed, voice thin and faint and he pressed his lips as if that would keep the hurt from spilling. “I will not stoop to your petty attempts to drive me away. Hurt me if you must; I’ve had worse. Try stabbing me in the chest first. Maybe then. Probably not even.” Because he was still fucking here, wasn’t he? “And death can come for me if it wishes. I wrapped an empire around my finger in one night. Imagine what I can do in a month.”

“I have underestimated your pride.”

“You underestimated _me_.” Lavellan fixed him a resolute look. “And even if I die, someone will take my place. There is no shortage of people willing to do the right thing. Besides…” His look softened. “I always knew I’d die early.”

Another breath of silence, another span of heavy quiet. A leaf fell from the tree and fluttered over Lavellan’s hair and he pulled it away with a wry smile, twisting it between his fingers.

“Are you going to run now?” he asked Fen’Harel, smile turning derisive.

There was a loud crack, a terrible noise, and the sunlit scene around them collapsed into smoke and dark shadows. They slithered and gathered around Fen’Harel, formed the shadow of a six-eyed wolf looming above him, left them both in the hazy backdrop of the Fade. A stage stripped of its props.

Lavellan laughed scornfully. “That’s a yes, then.”

The shadows fell upon Fen’Harel, shielding the upper half of his face once more. He said nothing.

“I don’t give up easily, just so you know,” warned Lavellan. “I will find out the truth. But tell me something…” He gazed not at the wolf but at the man beneath. “Are you sincere about me?”

“It does not matter now,” he said, his voice back to a powerful and unnerving reverb. “You will not kiss or love a liar. It seems you revile the taste of yourself on another’s lips.” 

“You’re wrong,” murmured Lavellan. “I _can_ love a liar.”

He already did.

Lavellan looked away. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said, forcing the words out through the thickness of his throat, “if you come forward and reveal who you are.”

“If I do not wish to?”

Lavellan shrugged, smiling in resignation. “Then that’s that.”

The dream collapsed further around them, fragments of the Fade’s emerald skies peering through the smoke and shadows.

“If you cannot love a liar,” said Fen’Harel, “then I cannot love a man who lives to die.”

Of all the hurtful words they had hurled at one another, that was the one which finally struck, made him flinch. 

“Then I guess we both have to change,” said Lavellan.

“Can we?”

Lavellan surveyed the scene before him, mourning the loss of the floating garden and the willow.

“Not in a dream,” he said and summoned his shadows. The dark mist descended and as it thickened, he met Fen’Harel’s eyes, grey eyes cutting through the dark tar and mist. Lavellan raised his arms. 

Brought them down. Tore the dream open. 

He woke himself up. 

Lavellan stared at the canopy of the bed, early morning sunlight spilling through the slits in the heavy Orlesian curtains. The room was still dim. 

After a few more moments of letting the dream settle, he sat up and swung his legs over the side, head falling in his hands. Despite the rest, he was fatigued. It was a deeper fatigue. Bone-deep. It overlaid his usual exhaustion.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the dim, empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's update will be late because I have exams (ew). I'll probably update on Saturday. If there is no update, then assume my brain got fried haha.
> 
> Childish_Midget has done not [one](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635535181588070400/the-lavellan-who-stared-back-at-him-was-the-same), not [two](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635622470274138112/cassandra-neared-her-gait-was-unmistakable), but [THREE](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635806646088679424/you-saved-me-solas-said-lavellan-frowned) MORE sketches for this fic <3 I'm so Blessed. Thank you, mwah, I love you as much as Hanon loves macarons. I've also put those sketches in their corresponding chapters as accompanying pieces. Shower her with love y'all she's fantastic and lovely and very sweet.
> 
> And! [Solas POV](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964/chapters/67664741) for Halamshiral because the devil works hard but damn do i work harder when i'm procrastinating on the projects and assignments and exams that are headed for my ass. 
> 
> (And I shit you not, [Solas has purple in his eyes](https://dalishious.tumblr.com/post/160980750062/do-you-know-what-colour-dorians-eyes-are).)
> 
> Also, more of these idiots speaking in verse if you're interested:  
> [Solas speaks in iambic pentameter – steady]  
> "The burdens that you carry weigh enough  
> And I revealed too much already." (but he leaves the last iamb unfinished – only 9 syllables instead of 10 - he’s drawing back)
> 
> [Lavellan replies in complete meter, trying to keep Solas engaged and get him to continue]  
> "I disagree. You’ve not revealed enough."
> 
> "Focus on Corypheus first." > abrupt change from iambic (da-DUM) to trochaic (DUM-da); no longer willing to engage Lavellan. He dropped the pentameter (10 syllables) and adopted the tetrameter (8); drawing back even further
> 
> -Fine- [Lavellan drops the verse and accepts it isn’t going anywhere]
> 
> Is that extra of me? Absolutely. Did I have fun? Absolutely.
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Vin, ma Venuralas:** Yes, my Deity[⇧]  
> [2] **El'ras'amelan:** Keepers of Secrets and Shadows[⇧]  
> [3] **Nu sil’josem on’el ghi’len:** Pain has served as the greatest teacher[⇧]


	47. Song of the nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE WAIT! Here you go :D And thank you to everyone who wished me well on my exams <3

_beacons in the dark—_

* * *

His companions loitered beside the carriages at the palace’s courtyard, ready for the trip back to Skyhold, and Lavellan joined them. Shambled more than walked. He didn’t feel well-rested at all, as if he had never slept. 

Before their departure, Briala arrived with a small group of servants bearing gifts. She and Lavellan shared a look and he followed her to a corner of the courtyard beside a flowerbed.

She sat on its edge and crossed her arms, appraising him. “You don’t look well.”

“Guess who paid me a surprise visit,” he grumbled.

Her eyes widened behind the mask. “In person?”

“No, gods forbid he be that straightforward,” he said. “He visited my dreams. Pissed me off while he was at it, too. I yanked control of my dream away from him so I could walk out on him, but that was more exhausting than I thought.”

She smiled. “Slamming the door on him?”

“In a way.”

“As _close friends_ do,” she said and he scowled at her tone. “Did he mention anything about the eluvians?”

“I asked him,” he said. “He didn’t say why he needed it but he did say why he left you three.”

“Oh? I suppose it isn’t out of the goodness of his heart?”

Lavellan looked away. “He says he wants to be proven wrong.”

A lull descended, filled only by the soft and distant chatter of his companions.

“Wrong about what?” Briala eventually asked.

“Hell if I know.” He rubbed his eyes. “He also said something worrying. That something bigger is coming. I’m not sure what since he kept stalling but whatever it is, he considers it much worse than tearing the Veil.”

Briala put her hand to her chin in thought. “I can procure you some scholars, if you have need of them.”

“I’ll let you know,” he said. “I’ll try to do some digging myself. If I get the time.”

Dorian called for him and gestured at the carriages. Ready to go it seemed. Briala stood and smiled at him, holding out her hand.

He took and shook it. “Happy hunting, Marquise Briala. I wish you the best.”

“And you, Inquisitor. Remember, you have a friend in Orlais.”

“And you have one in a snowy mountain.”

“In a castle.”

“Look at us. At the height of luxury.”

Briala shot him an admonishing look for the pun before they walked back together. Just as Lavellan was about to enter the carriage, Briala called for him to wait. He turned. She shoved a box into his hands.

“Macarons,” she said and a childish gasp escaped him, a delighted beam spreading across his face. “The box is enchanted. It will keep them fresh for a month—”

“I’ll finish these in a day.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m going to _inhale_ them.”

Briala sighed but she chuckled, nonetheless. He shared a final smile with her before he entered his carriage and threw self-restraint out the window, opening the box in glee. Lavellan smiled down at the assortment of macarons and immediately ate one. He hummed, smile widening.

Someone knocked.

He jumped and slapped the lid over the box in his panic, putting it aside and shoving the rest of the macaron in his mouth as he opened the door. Cole blinked up at him, Vergala on his shoulders. They stared at each other. Lavellan chewed once.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” said Cole.

Lavellan chewed the rest quickly and swallowed. “I was just startled.”

Cole frowned. “You’re always waiting for it to go bad. So you think you’re not allowed. You’re allowed.”

“It’s just a macaron,” he laughed nervously.

“It is,” agreed Cole. “But then, it’ll be the world.”

Lavellan stared.

“Can I come in?” asked Cole as if he hadn’t just slapped Lavellan verbally. 

“I— Yeah.” He let Cole in and closed the door. Vergala settled on Lavellan’s lap. Through the window, he spied Solas on horseback, speaking to Samara. Lavellan closed the curtain.

Cole watched him with too-bright eyes. “Words twist, tear, full of teeth. Why do you hurt each other?”

Lavellan held Vergala close and petted her head, her crest flattening beneath his hand before it fluffed back up.

“Because he wants to push me away. I do it because my temper is terrible.”

“You do it because you want him to fight for you.”

He paused his petting but Vergala squawked and he resumed, hands now trembling.

“Maybe,” he said.

Cole shook his head. “It’s not maybe. It’s yes.”

“You’re brutal, Cole.”

The whip cracked and the carriage moved.

Maybe Lavellan did want Solas to fight for it, for them, instead of letting it go. Fight to make this work. But could you do that when the choice came down to your lover or the world? Because Lavellan knew his choice.

He had done it before.

“Just because you did doesn’t mean you want to do it again,” said Cole. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeves. “But it’s different this time. He gave them a chance. It’s dangerous. You’re a current and he’s being swept away and his head is going under. You could drown him.”

“He could drown me, too,” Lavellan murmured. “But I’m being hypocritical, aren’t I? I demand the truth when I won’t even grant him the same courtesy.” But he needed Solas to do this first. He needed Solas to step forward and tell the truth because then, maybe Solas’ past reassurances of their relationship’s sincerity hadn’t been empty words. Maybe it hadn’t all been a convoluted game. Maybe every smile, every kiss, every touch, hadn’t been a lie, hadn’t been a _necessity_. Maybe…

“Maybe you mattered, after all,” finished Cole.

_“I want you to know that what we had was real.”_

_Was it?_

Lavellan blinked away the stinging in his eyes. Too tired for tears.

“You promised to tell if he does it first.” Cole looked at him, ghostly eyes vivid behind his blond fringe. “But you have two. Which one?”

And Lavellan smiled a broken smile, hated himself as he said, “Whichever lets me run for longer.”

* * *

Florianne crossed the Great Hall with her head held high as Josephine listed the charges against her, still proudly wearing the Chalons family mask. You would never catch an Orlesian dead without their mask, after all.

Lavellan searched the crowd for Solas before he caught himself. Force of habit. One he needed to rid himself of. He gripped the armrest and focused on Florianne instead. The intimidating shadow of his throne slashed over her as she stopped by the base of the steps.

Vergala flew in and perched on a sunray crowning the back of his seat. What an image this must make.

“How is my party so far, Florianne?” he asked with a smile he couldn’t feel.

She scoffed. “I would give it a three, Inquisitor. Out of twenty.”

“We’re missing a jester,” he said. “Are you volunteering?”

Florianne smiled grimly. “You and I both want this over and done with. Deal with me as you see fit. I may despise your victory, but I respect your mastery of the Game.”

He wiped the humour from his expression as he leaned back and rested his cheek on his fist. The farce of appearing in control of himself.

“You realise Corypheus is not a man who keeps his promises now, don’t you?” he asked.

She smiled. “And what of you? Are you a man who keeps your promises?”

“You stand in front of me in chains. That is answer enough.”

“And what promise does this answer?”

Lavellan only smiled back and said, “Lady Florianne, you remain a creature of opportunity and formality. We have use for both. Let’s see you dance for the Inquisition.”

Well, here was another decision to be met with controversy and disapproval. Again.

A ripple of murmurs. Her eyes squinted in delight behind the mask.

“One must remember the Game is never truly over, Your Worship,” she said. “How refreshing that you are willing to place your head inside the lion’s maw. Not many have the courage to test its teeth.”

His smile turned wry. “More a wolf than a lion.”

“Is there a difference?”

“The level of foolishness,” he said. “Return her to the cell in the meantime while we prepare suitable accommodations.”

The guards took her away and Lavellan caught sight of Solas retreating into the rotunda. So he’d watched after all. Lavellan stood and Vergala perched on his shoulders. 

“I felt about twenty disapproving stares,” he said as Josephine approached.

“There will always be disapproving stares, Inquisitor,” said Josephine gently. “We cannot please everyone. I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s dangerous,” he said and Josephine laughed.

“Very good, Inquisitor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to peruse.”

At her departure, Leliana stepped forward from the dispersing crowd, cutting a foreboding figure as always. 

“Leliana,” he greeted. “Is everything alright?”

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back and angled her head as a signal to follow. They walked back to the rookery.

“I have a few matters I wished to discuss,” she said. “And I also have a letter from your clan.”

His throat dried and he nodded.

There were two letters waiting for them on her rookery table, one rolled and tied with a halla leather cord. That was the first thing she gave. His lips pressed grimly as he read it.

“The Wycome nobles fled and are now spreading false rumours about the elves,” he reiterated and rerolled the letter. “The Keeper fears a retaliation, but she refuses to leave the city elves to die.” His heart warmed at the display of solidarity. He turned to Vergala on his shoulders. “Tell Josephine and Cullen we’ll have an emergency Council at sundown.”

She cawed and took off. He rubbed his eyes.

“Thank you for that,” he said and gave her a small smile. “How have you been?”

She glanced at the alcove housing the small shrine she often prayed at. “I assume you’ve heard of the Chantry looking to me or Cassandra to be Divine.”

“I did,” he said. “Thoughts?”

Leliana looked at the other letter on the table, something uncertain in her usually self-assured demeanour. She picked the letter up, tracing the edges of it gingerly.

“I received this letter from Divine Justinia,” she murmured.

Oh.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“Yes, thank you for the concern.” She fiddled with it, the edges wrinkling in her hands. “This was a contingency plan in the case of sudden death. She must have written this months, even years in advance. I’m to go to a chantry in Valence, a small village on the Waking Sea, to find something she’s hidden there.”

“If you’re asking for leave, I grant it,” he said but he already anticipated her next request.

“Will you go with me? It is alright if you cannot.”

He smiled sincerely despite the flipping of his stomach. “Only if we don’t go by boat. I get seasick. You should’ve seen me on the way to the Conclave. It was stormy so it took two weeks.” He greened just thinking about it. “It was awful.”

“From seasickness to Andraste’s chosen. A wild two weeks it must have been,” she said and chuckled. “We can take the Imperial Highway to Val Royeaux but we must catch a ship from there onwards. It won’t take long and it’s unlikely we’ll be caught by a storm.”

“Better be unlikely,” he grumbled. “But alright. We can discuss the arrangements during the Council later.”

“Thank you for this, Inquisitor.”

“You’re welcome,” he said and made to leave, but his eye fell on the nightingale carving dangling from her dagger sheath. His gaze softened. “Why did you stop me from letting Celene die?”

“I did not stop you,” she said and gently placed Divine Justinia’s letter down. “I reminded you. You were free to ignore me, yet you did not.”

“Why remind me then?”

She leaned against the table edge and drummed her fingers against it. “It did not seem like you.”

“No?”

“Do you take offence?”

Lavellan frowned. “No. I’m just…” He fiddled with the leather cord and glanced out the small window. “Was it really unlike me?”

“You have always gone out of your way to avoid using life as a currency. You personally handwrite condolence letters to the families of our fallen no matter how long it takes; you offer mercy even to those who have made attempts on your life. It was surprising when you announced you would willingly throw Celene’s life away for your plans.”

He bowed his head, trained his gaze at the floor. Leliana’s stare prickled at his skin.

“You excelled at court,” she said, “yet you seemed like a different person. Was that a mask, Inquisitor, or is this the mask?”

“I have many faces, is all,” he murmured. “The very act of changing them is me, apparently.”

She stared at him, half-baffled, half-intrigued.

“Apparently,” she echoed.

Lavellan smiled at her. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

* * *

After directing Cullen to send troops to Wycome immediately and settling business for the Arbor Wilds, he and Leliana left for Valence the next morning.

He feared the trip alone with Leliana would be awkward but Leliana was a good conversationalist, and without the pressures of appearing as Inquisitor and Spymaster, they could just be Lavellan and Leliana for a meagre moment. Free of the burdens of their carefully cultivated images. She shared stories about Tabris and the miscellaneous jobs they had been on, while he shared stories of his time with Clan Lavellan. Homesickness once again twisted his gut.

“Do you wish to return?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but not to stay. I don’t think I can anymore.”

“It is different, no? Once you have walked the world and seen it is bigger than you ever knew.” She stared at him, grey eyes shrewd. “I do not believe you have stayed with your clan your whole life before the Conclave.”

“Oh?” he asked.

She smiled. “That is not a no.”

“It’s not a yes, either.”

“No,” she agreed, “but it is an answer.”

“And what would that be?”

“That you wish for someone to infer your past without you needing to tell them. It saves you the confrontation.”

Clever Leliana. “Maybe,” he conceded and looked out the carriage window. “But you won’t.”

“Cole has determined it,” she said. “I could ask him.”

“He won’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

Lavellan closed his eyes and leaned back, settling his interlocked fingers over his stomach. “Because I taught him that some people shouldn’t have the easy way out. I failed to realise that included me.”

“You have an air about you. As if you are older than your body.”

He opened his eyes and met Leliana’s steady stare. “I’m curious. What have you theorised about me? Let’s see if you’re close to the truth.”

She smiled that mischievous smile of hers. A special brand of Leliana. “Only my speculations? Or shall we include the entire inner circle’s? Varric has a good one of his own.”

He groaned. “Let’s hear it.”

“He speculates that you are an ancient elven prince. He’s already written something short about it. It’s a good read. Perhaps you can ask to see it.”

Lavellan burst out laughing. “He does realise that would imply I’m an Elvhen god?” Him as an elven prince— He had _served_ a prince, or the equivalent of one anyway.

“Solas said something similar in response.”

He hid his face in his hands. “Bet he was insulted by that.”

“Unimpressed,” she said, smiling. “I believe we may have triggered a little overprotectiveness on his end.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“The discussion had led to them speculating you are the Dread Wolf.”

“Oh Creators,” he whispered under his breath. This was his life now?

“Solas scolded us,” she recalled with a small smile. “He had said that you are already the Herald, and that you do not need another mantle of divinity on your shoulders.”

A little of his ire at Solas softened. Only a little. 

Leliana continued, “The Iron Bull speculates you once belonged to an assassin’s guild of sorts and escaped that life of darkness, hence your adamance for mercy and forgiveness.”

“Slightly more reasonable than ancient elven prince or being the Dread fucking Wolf, for that matter,” he said, torn between horrified laughter and unhinged yelling.

“I amend that you were likely a spymaster.”

“Oh?”

“You prefer to operate subtly, and you value the weight of information as a weapon. You think ahead and prepare contingency plans.”

“That’s not specific to spymasters,” he pointed out.

“No, she said and narrowed her eyes, “but you play to the shadows, reliant upon it. You are content to not be the brightest or loudest in the room, you fight where you’re needed, and you extend your reach quietly by being everywhere yet nowhere at once. You leave nothing to chance.”

Lavellan smiled. “Maybe I just have the makings of a spymaster.”

“You navigated court with a surprising mastery that you couldn’t have accrued over months, no matter how prodigious you are. Some things you can only gain through experience.”

“Fascinating,” was his evasive answer.

“So I propose that you are not an elven prince, but rather, the spymaster of an elven prince.” She smiled, the squint of her eyes now from smugness over scrutiny. “Or was. Clearly you cannot be their spymaster anymore. And since most of your gods are locked away, that only leaves one viable candidate.”

He almost choked on his spit.

“You are not the Dread Wolf, rather, you were his spymaster.”

Lavellan stared for a beat of silence before he laughed, the sound crossing the line into manic. Leliana stared back, unfazed.

“I have also heard that the orb which imparted the mark upon your hand is elven,” she continued. “A channel of power for one of your gods. So perhaps you are still acting in his name.”

He laughed harder.

“Skyhold has also been the site of an ancient elven ritual and its history is shrouded in mystery. Solas is the one to lead us to it. It’s possible you are both working for him.”

Lavellan gave up on making coherent noises and succumbed to his laughing fit while Leliana waited patiently for him to regain his articulacy. He was surprised Leliana didn’t make the leap that Solas was the Dread Wolf, but to be fair, he was irritatingly good at being unassuming and Lavellan’s actions the past few months were more suspicious. Lavellan was the one who’d played tricks while wearing a wolf mask during Satinalia. He was the one who’d given Solas the wolf charms. He was the one who had kept alluding to wolves and making puns about them. He was the one with the ominous bullshit.

But he had to hand it to her — she was closer than she realised. And yet so far.

“Solas hates the elven gods, you realise?” he asked.

“And it was Fen’Harel who imprisoned them. Convenient.” She scrutinised him. “You do not deny it?”

“That I work for the Dread Wolf? Never suggest that again.”

“You are not going to answer, are you?” she asked.

“Obviously not. But maybe our minds work similarly enough for you to figure me out. Who knows?”

Leliana stayed quiet, searched his eyes, and Lavellan let her collect whatever it was she was searching for.

“Unfortunately, Inquisitor, there is a key difference between us that stops me from truly understanding you,” she said.

“Which is?”

She looked out the carriage window. “Forgiveness.”

“I— What?”

“You are forgiving, willing to provide others a second chance if they are genuinely repentant.” She smiled, gaze faraway. “I question those choices of yours often, especially if there is no further use for them.”

“They’re people, not pieces.”

“That is what I mean. No matter how similar we are, I can never fully understand, nor can I comprehend. I must be cold and ruthless.”

“That’s not true,” he murmured. “You are neither of those.”

“I am. I must be to keep us safe.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” he asked. Dear Leliana who had had a clear shot, who could have ended him with an arrow to the heart before Solas could use him to hurt anybody else.

But she couldn’t shoot.

Leliana stayed quiet. He nudged her foot and she glanced back at him.

“I know you’re a good person, Leliana,” he said. “You have the capacity to be forgiving and merciful. I believe you do.”

Leliana laughed to herself. “You see? Even now, you say such things.”

“Remember in Haven when you didn’t kill your agent after his betrayal?”

“You asked me not to.”

He snorted. “I was a stranger to you. An acquaintance or business partner at best. You didn’t do it for me. You wanted someone to tell you it was alright.”

“I cannot hesitate.”

“Do you think mercy is hesitation?”

She paused, frowned. “I—” She shook her head and looked out the window once more. “This is different.”

“How?” he challenged.

Leliana didn’t answer. All Lavellan could do was look out the window with her and watch the fields of the Dales roll past, watch the inkblots of birds writing unseen messages on the parchment of the skies.

* * *

Silence in a chantry was often a symptom of reverence, a result of meditative respect. Not this silence. The Valence cloister held its breath, as still as Fen’Harel’s old bedroom in the dream that Solas had shown him from what felt like a lifetime ago. Early morning light diffused through the stained glass and graced them with bursts of red and gold.

Leliana genuflected at Andraste’s statue. Should he genuflect as well since he was ‘Andraste’s chosen’? Then again, you could argue that he was also Fen’Harel’s (accidental) chosen and he wasn’t genuflecting at wolf statues any time soon.

“It’s just as I remember,” said Leliana.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Tabris and I visited Justinia after the Blight. Although she was still Dorothea then.”

They walked through the hall. Lavellan eyed the statue of Maferath the Betrayer, his face hidden in his hands in shame. Shave the head, slap elf ears on, shove a wolf pelt over his shoulders, and there you had a broody Elvhen god.

“It’s too quiet,” he said. “I feel uneasy.”

Vergala flew off his shoulders and perched on Maferath’s head and promptly took a shit. Lavellan swallowed back a childish laugh.

“It’s quite early,” said Leliana, unaware of Vergala’s little detour. Her reminiscing gaze traced the statues, the columns, the ceiling. “The Chant won’t start for a while. I’m sure the sisters are somewhere.”

“Leliana?” a soft voice asked. “Is that you?”

They turned towards the voice. Sister Natalie entered the Chantry, the perfect picture of meek serenity. 

Leliana smiled. “Natalie!”

Memories flitted through his head ― images of Natalie’s slitted throat, her blood pooling on the marble floors as Andraste’s painting watched on in placid apathy. 

Leliana hugged Natalie and looked up at Lavellan with a warning in her gaze as Natalie’s back was turned to him. 

Once the introductions were out of the way, they wandered the Chantry and inspected its paintings as they followed the clues Justinia left behind. Leliana kept up a stream of easy conversation with Natalie in the background. He smiled at her well-chosen yet casual questions.

“Do they still sing the Benedictions on Fridays?” asked Leliana. “That was Justinia’s favourite.”

“Of course.”

His smile disappeared upon recollection of how this would end.

They solved the puzzle far too soon. Andraste’s portrait hadn’t even opened fully yet before Leliana pinned Natalie against the base of Andraste’s statue with a knife to her throat.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Leliana. “They never sing the Benedictions on Fridays, Natalie.”

“Leliana,” Lavellan warned.

“I’m protecting us,” she said, clipped, and returned her attention to Natalie. “You were lying from the start.”

Natalie pursed her lips defiantly and stared Leliana down.

“Don’t worry,” said Leliana, “you already gave me what I needed. Your answers point to Morelle in the Dales. Grand Cleric Victoire’s bastion. She’s always been opposed to Justinia, silent as she was about it, and now she’s sent you to find what she’s hidden, no doubt.”

Natalie scowled. “The Inquisition has turned Thedas away from the true Chantry. It must be stopped.”

Lavellan burst out laughing. A quaint sentiment. He recognised it was his pride speaking but could he be blamed? Stop the Inquisition? When it had faced off (and won) against an ancient darkspawn magister? When its key members had hunted down and tracked the dread Wolf?

“Mother Victoire is loved by many. The Inquisition has more enemies than you know,” Natalie said, perhaps in a bid to regain whatever small foothold she had in the conversation before Lavellan’s sudden fit of mirth. He cleared his throat and forced himself to stop.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “An ancient darkspawn magister hasn’t managed to stop us, is all I’m saying. Unless the grand cleric is an ancient darkspawn magister?”

“I suppose she could count as ancient,” said Leliana, smiling, but her smile faded as she rounded her lethal look on Natalie, the killing intent ready. She pressed the knife deeper.

“Leliana,” he called out again, “release her. She’s no threat.”

“The grand cleric—”

“Is one woman. We are the Inquisition. What enemies we make or confront, we can handle.”

Leliana looked at him over her shoulder, her expression set, grey eyes flashing. Looked upon him with the same grey eyes that had flickered with hesitation during the final battle, her otherwise steady bow suddenly wavering.

 _“She’s different,” murmured Tabris as she watched Leliana, but Lavellan could tell she meant to say,_ What have you done?

“Laurel leaves,” he reminded softly and her set expression faltered.

Leliana glanced back at Natalie, the silence and hesitation lingering. She bowed her head. 

Lavellan tensed as the seconds passed, the knife against Natalie’s throat neither slicing nor retracting.

_You are not ruthless, you are not cold._

He opened his mouth, but whatever words he had prepared died as Leliana lowered the knife.

She stepped away.

He was so taken aback that he took an actual step back.

“The Inquisitor has spoken,” said Leliana, and holy shit? “Go run. Tell your mistress that she has a choice.” She stood beside Lavellan and scowled at Natalie. “The Inquisition is coming.”

She and Natalie shared a meaningful look before Natalie nodded and retreated. Nobody spoke. Not until the Chantry doors closed, the slam of it echoing in the space. Lavellan stared at Leliana. Leliana met his stare with a raised brow.

“Why do you look so surprised? You are the one who ordered it.”

“Yes, but…” _But you disregarded me last time._ Lavellan shook his head, a mantra of _holy shit_ flitting through his head. “Is that the only reason you let her go? Because I ordered it?”

She glanced away. “No,” she murmured and walked past him towards the alcove that the opened painting had revealed. Within it sat a small, ornate box on a pedestal. The box had a neat slit in place of a keyhole and Leliana stared at her small bard knife, then at the slit.

“Justinia gifted me this knife,” she said and they shared a brief look. Lavellan nodded.

She slipped it in, the blade fitting perfectly, and carefully turned it. The box unlocked. Leliana swung the lid open but he already knew it to be empty. More of a symbolic gesture than a practical one.

“No!” cried Leliana at the empty box. “There’s nothing!”

“Emptiness doesn’t mean absence.”

“A lovely sentiment, Inquisitor,” she said, “but— Wait. There’s an inscription on the lid.”

He shrugged with an air of _I-told-you-so_ and Leliana looked at him with an air of _I’m-still-holding-a-knife_.

“The Left Hand should lay down her burden,” Leliana read, and her confusion morphed into something crestfallen. “She’s… releasing me. A thousand lies and a thousand deaths and it’s always the Left Hand that reaches out. It was my conscience which bore the consequences.”

“What she said in the Fade…”

“All along, she was afraid she was using me as I’ve been used in the past. But she gambled with the fate of nations. She needed me.” Leliana frowned. “I was the only one who could do it.

> _Dirthamen keeps the empire together, his strings unseen yet sure. Take them away and it all unravels._
> 
> _I am his greatest string, his longest, strongest. I cannot fail. I will not fail._
> 
> _I never fail._

Lavellan placed the memory aside. It was less intrusive this time, more like a coat of dust that he had to brush off him instead of a brick to the teeth.

She turned the bard knife in her hands. “She gave this to me, and now she wants me to put it down and lock it away.”

“Lay it down,” he said. “Let her rest. Let yourself rest.”

Leliana smiled at the box. “If it were not for you, I would’ve killed Natalie and called it a good thing.” She stared at the bard knife, her eyes reflecting on the blade, before she gently placed it into the box. Her careful hands closed the lid. The box clicked. Locked. They stood over the box, draped in the quiet of the Chantry and the scrutiny of Andraste’s many likenesses.

“I almost lost myself…” she murmured, ran gentle fingers over the carved rose atop the lid. “How do you do it?”

He glanced at her. “Do what?”

“How do you not lose yourself to the shadows?”

“I lost myself to them before,” he said. “I was a real piece of shit.”

Leliana smiled. “I can imagine. You are nigh insufferable now.”

“You wound me,” he said and laughed, but the teasing slowly faded from his expression and tone. He sighed, the sound worn. “It’s hard when the shadows are your post and weapon. You need a light to keep you grounded.”

“You are the beacon in the dark, Mahanon,” she said. “For me and for many. I saw you as someone who knew his way through the shadows unerringly, but it… It helps knowing that you stumble and that you manage despite this.”

Lavellan stared at her again. This morning wasn’t going the way he had expected. The Leliana he had grown to know would have never said these things.

This was a different person.

This was a stranger who wore a friend’s face. But, no— They were the same person. Or… not. What even made a person who they were? Their appearance? Experiences? Was this person before him who wore the name and face of Leliana someone different? 

Was his Leliana dead?

Was he the only one alive from that old world which now only existed in his unreliable memories?

“Kallian is my light,” said Leliana and he snapped himself out of those thoughts. “Though it’s difficult with her so far away.”

“Does Cassandra know you knew where Tabris ran off to?” he asked with a small smile, injected some levity to banish those thoughts. “And that you pulled a Varric?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to pick at a healing sore.” She smiled at him. “Who or what is your light, Inquisitor?”

He looked up in thought, watched the play of light through the rich, stained-glass window depicting the prominent figures of the Andrastian faith. Shartan was lost within the crowd of believers behind Andraste, tucked away to the point that you wouldn’t even see him unless you were looking, wearing a hood which conveniently hid his ears. 

One day, would they dock Lavellan’s ears too? Erase his vallaslin? Vehemently deny the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste was a Dalish elf? Would they twist his legacy into something far removed from itself? Or would they be content to forget him just like all the elves before him who had accomplished great things, who had changed the world. Shartan, Garahel, Inquisitor Ameridan… All of them had been erased. Was that the fate awaiting him?

No matter how loud Lavellan roared, how much of his blood he smeared along the walls, would it one day brown and fade into the plaster? Gone. Never there.

What would Solas do if that came to pass and he lived long enough to see it? What if Lavellan failed this time too? Would Solas be left roaming his new world, having averted whatever crisis loomed over the horizon, wallowing in his never-ending regrets and mourning the price he paid? What place would Lavellan have in that new world? Would he paint Lavellan upon the walls? Tell the story of a forgotten hero from a forgotten world?

Or did he plan to die once he had completed his duties?

“Inquisitor?” asked Leliana.

Lavellan blinked, then shook his head with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry, my thoughts wandered. But my lights? They carry the carvings I made for them.”

They were reminders for his companions. For him, too.

A reminder to never take them for granted.

“Shall we make a pact?” he asked.

“I do so love pacts.”

He held out his hand. “We stop each other from getting lost in the shadows?” he asked.

“You have a deal,” she said and shook his hand.

“We’ll take shifts,” he teased. “Oh no, what if our shifts overlap?”

Leliana snorted. “Then you ask Solas. He will find something for you to disagree with and you will willingly leave the shadows just to yell at him.”

“Can we please travel back to Skyhold without you nagging me about Solas?”

“It was hardly nagging. I can show you true nagging.”

“And you call me insufferable?”

* * *

Josephine praised Leliana for her incredible restraint upon return and Leliana grimaced like a beleaguered bird. Still, Leliana seemed lighter.

The contrast between this Leliana and the one he had known pressed at Lavellan and it invited uncomfortable thoughts that he had no wish of entertaining, so he threw himself into trying to determine what the terrible thing Solas had hinted at was. He managed to borrow a book on obscure elven lore from Morrigan and retreated to the garden.

The flowers Lavellan had planted were blooming wonderfully. Little dots of cheerful colour.

Maybe he could plant some wisteria…

He caught himself and shooed that thought away.

Lavellan settled on a bench and started the book. Parts of the book were in Elvish but Morrigan had annotated the margins with translations, not that he needed them. She had made a valiant effort, though she still missed the nuances.

“You’re the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan looked up from the book, slightly disoriented from being pulled out of a focused state, and met Kieran’s wide and wondering eyes.

Kieran tilted his head. “Mother didn’t tell me the Inquisitor was an elf.”

Lavellan closed the book. “Was it the blood or the whispers?”

“Both,” he said, unmoved by the cryptic question. “It’s very loud in your head. It’s loud in mine, too, but only when I dream.”

“They’re quiet in my dreams,” said Lavellan. “But something else is loud.”

“The past,” he agreed. “What did it feel like?”

“Which? The past?”

His gaze remained unerring as he said, “No, dying.”

“Hurt.”

Kieran shook his head. “No, the other one.”

“I don’t know,” said Lavellan, frowning. “I’ve forgotten.”

He deflated. “Oh. And I was going to ask why your people wanted to look like that. Now you don’t remember.”

Lavellan stayed quiet, scrutinised him. He should probably be more unnerved, but after being battered by ominous elven bullshit for so long, he had gained an immunity to unnerving omens and comments.

Flemeth had taken Kieran’s Old God Soul but did it return to him once time reversed? What was Flemeth up to? Surely she knew what was going on by now.

She had known where Kieran was because of the Well of Sorrows.

“Kieran,” Lavellan started, something knotting in his throat, “has your grandmother spoken to you lately?”

He shook his head. Lavellan wasn’t certain whether that was a good or a bad thing. Was she biding her time? If so, for what?

“You’re not scared of me,” said Kieran, beaming. “The others usually are.”

Lavellan returned the smile. “People are usually scared of uncertainty,” he said. Kieran was all that wrapped up in a ball.

“They’re scared of you too. They fear the next age if it comes too soon.” He sat with Lavellan. “What are you reading?”

“Something big is coming,” said Lavellan, “and the gods are unhelpful so I want to find out what it is myself.”

“The gods? The Wolf?”

“Yes.”

“He’s here. Aren’t you afraid?”

“No.”

Kieran fidgeted. “Mother says you should never play with the gods. They’ll play you instead.”

“I know,” Lavellan murmured but he shook his head and smiled once more. “But that’s such a dreary conversation for such a nice garden. Would you like to read with me?”

“I should be studying,” he said and pouted.

“Studying what?”

“Mother wants me to learn old words from your people.”

“Would you like some help? I’m a walking archive.”

His expression brightened. “Yes, please!” Such a polite boy. Kieran frowned though. “But you don’t listen to the whispers enough. You’ve forgotten how to.”

“I can still listen.”

“Not those whispers. The other one! You hold smoke better than water. That’s why it’s so quiet.”

Lavellan stared. It had been foolish of him to think that Kieran couldn’t surprise him.

“I’ll go get my books!” Kieran said and left. Lavellan frowned down at his book, ran his thumb over its edges. Cryptic comment aside, perhaps it was time to consult the Well, but Keiran was right. The more Lavellan had pushed the Well aside, the harder it became for him to get an answer. It had been responsive the first time he drank, but the years wore on and the whispers became ambient noise, and now, he only heard them if they wished to be heard.

Better than nothing.

Lavellan closed his eyes and eased back into the whispers, let them curl around the edges of his conscious.

 _“ Ahn Fen’Harel esayal diana?[1]”_ he asked.

The whispers shifted, waves overlapping, collective voices gathering and uniting into a chorus. It took a while. His brows scrunched in concentration as he waded through the noise.

The waves rescinded.

He scrunched his face. _Come back here—!_

A hiss. The waves roared. But Lavellan stood his ground.

Eventually, the waves eased and the indecipherable whispers became discernible.

 _Alas’enes din,[2]_ it answered.

Alright, he should have been more specific.

_“ Ahn judin alas’en?[3]”_

_Daur._

His eyes flew open, met Kieran’s patient gaze. How long had he been there for?

“What did they say?” Kieran asked.

Lavellan chewed on his lip. “They told me what will end the world.”

“What is it?”

He clutched the book.

“Malice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Breath of the Wild reference was accidental haha.
> 
> And Leliana has been softened! Cue Lavellan's crisis! For someone aiming to make changes, he sure gets surprised every time it actually happens. Poor boy's been so used to failing. 
> 
> Also, I just have so many feelings about how the elves have been treated throughout history. It's just so-- gutting. These are prominent figures who've changed the world, saved so many people, but then. Forgotten. And then you remember that's exactly what happened to Solas as well, but he's alive to see it happen which is just a double slap, and then i got to thinking about what he would do if the same thing happened to Lavellan and he just sees the world twist his lover's legacy-- ugH. 
> 
> And this issue happens in real life too. Is still happening. Sometimes I wonder just how many forgotten people we unknowingly owe our thanks to. Sometimes I wonder who was erased just for the crime of existing.
> 
> Anyway, something to think about.
> 
> Also, more chapter sketches by Childish_Midget because I refuse to not shout my throat hoarse about it. Once again, those sketches have also been put up on the actual chapters:  
> Chapter [4](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635897233819271168/no-youre-right-its-all-bullshit-lavellan), [5](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635989612438880256/art-by-childishmidgetcdraconik-chapter-5), [6](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/636169041659183104/not-tonight-he-said-tomorrow-we-can-shout), [7](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/636259607520673792/two-betrayals-in-one-week-was-not-how-lavellan), [8](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/636531401393586176/lavellan-walked-out-of-apothecary-adans-cabin)  
> 
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation:
> 
> [1] **Ahn Fen'Harel esayal diana?:** What is Fen'Harel trying to stop?[⇧]  
> [2] **Alas'enes din:** The end of the world[⇧]  
> [3] **Ahn judin alas'en?:** What will end the world?[⇧]


	48. From acerbic tongues

hearts and danger strung _—_

* * *

Lavellan paced harriedly in the library, dumped the stacks of books and tomes in his arms onto the table. Most of them had been borrowed from Morrigan since Dorian was right; their library catalogue _was_ abysmal. He indeed had no need to know if Divine Galatea had taken a shit on Sunday. 

Morrigan had squinted at him and his request for books, but Kieran had taken a shining to him which had improved Lavellan’s standing in her eyes, so she parted from her books without much heartache. Her scrutiny remained, though.

Lavellan muttered to himself as he dismissed several books. Where should he start looking?

Malice… The world would end from malice. But Elvish was a language of intentions so perhaps he mustn’t take it so literally. What could it stand for? Another, hidden meaning?

“Daur,” he whispered to himself, let the word settle, let himself wrap around the word, let it sink into him. Malice. It was also another word for—

He perked up.

Poison.

The world would end from poison. Red lyrium?

No, red lyrium was a by-product of the Blight. But what had caused the Blight in the first place, putting Chantry rhetoric aside? The Evanuris had wielded the Blight against the Titans as he and Morrigan had discovered, but where did it originate from? Somewhere from the Void? Or somewhere else? Or did the Evanuris devise it themselves?

Solas shot him looks from the rotunda. Likely fed up with Lavellan wearing away at the floorboards with his pacing. That, or he was irritated that Lavellan was making good on his promise to get to the bottom of this, with or without Fen’Harel’s help.

Footsteps soon ascended the stairs. Lavellan snorted to himself. Solas finally got sick of him?

“Research?” asked Solas behind him. The first thing he’d said to Lavellan in days. They hadn’t spoken for a week, and Lavellan would blame busyness over avoidance, but he knew better.

Lavellan leaned over the table, eyes darting across the open pages and scattered papers.

“Am I being too loud?” he asked instead of answering.

Solas neared though he maintained a respectful distance as he scanned the research Lavellan had haphazardly scattered across the desk.

“I fear for the floor’s varnish,” said Solas. “What with all your shuffling.”

“Can I help you with something?” Lavellan asked, fought to keep the snippiness from his tone, fought to remain composed.

He eyed Lavellan. “Have I done something to displease you?”

 _Yeah, you ass_. If his displeasure could manifest, it would throttle Solas. Instead, he raised a practiced brow and said, “I’d ask that of you, actually. You’re the one who’s been avoiding me.”

His pause was too long. “I was not.”

“You hesitated,” said Lavellan.

Solas face remained carefully aloof, though he looked as if he regretted giving in and coming here, though that could just be his default expression. Regret here. Regret over there. Sprinkle in a sanctimonious complex and there you have the trademark Solas look.

“Nothing escapes you,” Solas praised in that clipped tone of voice which was pretty much Solas speak for _fuck off_.

“If you have something to say, just say it. I’ve had my fill of deciphering intentions in Halamshiral. I’d rather not do it at home.”

He stared at Lavellan. “You consider Skyhold… home?”

“I’m sure Fen’Harel is rolling in his annoyance at the notion, wherever he is,” Lavellan said dryly, “but yes, Skyhold is home for me. Is that a problem?”

The aloofness finally cracked, revealing the hints of fondness. Lavellan clenched his jaw.

“I am certain the Dread Wolf wouldn’t completely disapprove of the change in upholstery.”

A sharp huff of laughter left Lavellan. “There wasn’t any upholstery when we came here. He’d better be thankful that Josephine Montilyet has impeccable taste.”

“You once asked why Fen’Harel would allow the Inquisition to find his castle.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps he meant it as a gift.”

Lavellan arranged the papers on the desk and mumbled beneath his breath, just soft enough that Solas could dismiss it as something Lavellan hadn’t meant for him to hear, “I would prefer the gift of truth.”

Solas tensed imperceptibly.

Lavellan fixed him a dazzling smile. “You wouldn’t happen to know how the Evanuris won against the Earth, would you?”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back and looked away as if the smile was obnoxiously bright.

“I have not witnessed it, unfortunately,” he said. “Even the echoes wish for it to be forgotten.”

Clever phrasing. Of course he hadn’t witnessed it. He hadn’t been counselling Mythal yet, but surely he still knew about it?

“Pity,” was all Lavellan said.

* * *

“Fairbanks has made contact,” said Cullen. “He’s requesting help with the Freemen.”

“The scouts we stationed in the Graves have also mentioned sightings of Red Templars,” said Leliana. “And where the Red Templars are…”

“Red lyrium isn’t far behind,” Lavellan muttered. “Likely smugglers around too.”

“If we intercept these smugglers, that’s one step closer to finding out where the Red Templars’ main source of lyrium is,” said Cullen.

“Speaking of,” said Lavellan. “How goes the situation at Emprise?”

Leliana frowned. “The scouts report of a mine guarded by Red Templars. We can’t get any closer without arousing suspicion, but I suspect it’s a red lyrium mine.”

Most definitely. “Where’s Hawke?” he asked.

“Still travelling with Sutherland’s company. Did you have something in mind?”

“I want to send her to Emprise and keep an eye on things. Snoop around.” He paused. “Remind her to be subtle, please.”

Leliana chuckled. “I can try.

“And about Florianne’s proposed plan, Inquisitor,” said Josephine, “are you willing to risk it?”

“I’m willing to dance,” he said. “If her plan goes well, we’ll have the names of those in Corypheus’ service.” He looked at Leliana. “But make sure not a single drop of our own is spilled. This was her gamble, and I didn’t spend all those hours stepping on people’s feet in Jo’s office just to be outdanced. If she gets caught by the Venatori, that’s on her.”

“I’ll send my agents to watch the runners,” she agreed.

“We’ve also received another letter from Dowager Mantillon,” said Josephine with a smile.

“Many dances today,” he mused. “What kind of dance is this one?”

She showed him her letter. “An allemande. If you dance gracefully, Inquisitor, we may just procure the Ylenn Basin property for ourselves.”

He smiled. “Ah, more of the Dales to be given back to me? How kind. Let’s dance with this comte she mentioned, shall we?”

“At once.”

Lavellan drummed his fingers on the table as they discussed other issues across Thedas. Zevran had contacted them so that was a fun letter to read, and Varric had a copycat apparently. That was also interesting.

“So then,” he said, “looks like I’ll be returning to the Graves.” He couldn’t help but smile. How was Clan Venalin and Revasha? 

“You look excited,” noted Leliana with a smile. “I hear you’ve procured a student among the Dalish.”

“She’s a very difficult student,” he sighed. “More liable to stomp on my foot than listen to me.”

Leliana chuckled. “Well, you need to be given grief every now and again.”

“Kind as always, Leliana.”

They sorted out the plan for the Emerald Graves and the other numerous operations they had across Thedas before they finally concluded the Council.

“Inquisitor, before you go,” said Josephine. “Dagna wishes to see you in the Undercroft. She mentioned a hook and glowing chains?”

He grinned.

* * *

“Should I ask?” said Dorian.

Lavellan fitted the hook and chain to his hip. The design was different this time, more streamlined, and much lighter. Smaller. Half the length of his forearm. He grinned at Dorian.

“A work of genius from Dagna,” he explained and grabbed the bladed hook, balanced for throwing, and threw it at a low-hanging branch. Prismatic chains shimmered in the sunlight, made of the same material as the axe that Briala’s people had found in the Crossroads. Lavellan had given that axe to Bull.

Lavellan played around with it for a bit, whooping as he swung across low-hanging branches. He collided with Blackwall who had the misfortune of standing in the way and Lavellan went down cackling.

“I’m too old for this,” groaned Blackwall.

“Sorry!” he said and helped Blackwall up. Vivienne and Cassandra sent him berating looks, so he stopped messing about with a sheepish laugh.

“You are a child,” said Dorian with a chuckle.

“And your boss.”

Lavellan cleared his throat and composed himself as he gathered everybody’s attention, ignoring Dorian’s sniggering. They congregated at the table where a map of the Emerald Graves had been laid out.

“Fairbanks should be just ahead at Watcher’s Reach,” Lavellan said, pointing at the location. “And we’ve sighted Red Templars and red lyrium smugglers lurking about. We’ll split up into two groups.” He assigned everyone their tasks and group and went over the plans before they set out.

Lavellan’s group fought through a small band of Freemen before they reached Watcher’s Canyon and greeted Fairbanks’ men who allowed them passage.

“So who is this Fairbanks fellow?” asked Dorian. “He seems to have… appeared out of nowhere?”

“Desperate times sees the rise of people wanting to do good,” said Lavellan. Fairbanks’ integrity he would never question. He had a stalwart, compassionate heart, and a noble humility to him — traits the world sorely lacked.

“Or those of unknown intentions, masquerading under the guise of assistance,” said Solas.

“Or both,” said Varric.

“He can be trusted,” said Lavellan with a surety that may have been too suspicious.

Solas scowled. “You seem so certain about the integrity of a man you have not yet met.”

Lavellan frowned at his tone.

_“You and Fairbanks appear to be becoming fast friends,” said Solas._

_“He’s very kind.” Lavellan held up the basket of food, smiling. “A gift. He says it was the least he could do and that he didn’t know how else to thank us. It’s rare to see someone so genuinely kind. The world is all the better for it.”_

_“You seem so certain about the integrity of a man you have not known for long.”_

_“You suspect he has ulterior motives?”_

_“You are the Inquisitor. Who would not wish for your favour?”_

_Lavellan stared at him. “That doesn’t answer my question. Truthfully, do you think he is someone to be wary of?”_

_Solas hesitated, the corner of his lips pulling slightly. Lavellan raised a brow. Oh my._

_“Vhenan,” Lavellan said, grinning, “are you jealous?”_

_“There is nothing to be jealous of.”_

_His grin only widened. “Uh huh.”_

_Solas turned and walked away and Lavellan laughed, grabbed his arm and tugged him close to press a quick kiss to his lips. Lavellan meant to pull back but Solas cupped the back of his neck and deepened the kiss. Not jealous his ass._

_Lavellan hummed after and nodded gravely. “You’re right. That wasn’t the kiss of a jealous man at all.”_

_“Hush,” he said and kissed Lavellan again._

Lavellan’s lips twitched and he snorted to himself.

“What’s funny?” asked Bull.

“Nothing.”

Bull couldn’t prod further because Fairbanks met them at the end of the canyon with a polite smile.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, I take it?” he asked, Orlesian accent curling around his words.

“Yes. I’m guessing you’re Fairbanks?”

“Good guess.” They shared a firm handshake and Lavellan found himself smiling, comforted by his presence. He was a good man. Gallant. “I trust you found your way alright?”

“Ran into a few Freemen.”

He frowned. “They are getting closer, then. They’ve been content to stay further south, but as the month progressed, they’ve slowly made their way up north and targeted us. Now a few of my people have gone missing.”

Fairbanks led them to the small sanctuary that they had established in an elven ruin built into the canyon side. Orlesian refugees milled about, devastated from the civil war, making do with what they had. The place was packed.

“How many?” asked Lavellan.

“Just under two hundred. As you can imagine, it is difficult to protect such numbers.”

Varric whistled. “Shit, this is almost as bad as the Hinterlands.”

Fairbanks led them to a table with a map marking the Freemen’s bases of operations and briefed them about the situation. By the time they’d finished their discussion, it was afternoon.

“We’ll scout it out,” Lavellan promised. “See what kind of numbers we’ll need to hit them with. We’ll work on getting your missing people today.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

The five of them set out for the veridium mine where some of the refugees had gone to steal supplies but never returned.

“So that was Fairbanks,” said Dorian. “He does seem quite dependable. Has that air about him. What do you think, Varric?”

“Why me?”

“You’re usually the one with insights on characters. Let’s hear it.”

Varric laughed. “Sparkler, I bullshit half the time with my own characters. Forget real people.”

“I think he’s an honest guy,” said Bull. “People get this look in their eyes when they’re scheming, and only experienced people can hide it. Either he’s really good, or he’s alright.”

“His background is uncertain,” Solas said and irritation plucked at Lavellan. “It isn’t implausible to think that perhaps he falls in the experienced category.”

“You know who else’s background is uncertain?” Lavellan snapped without meaning to, and froze.

Solas stared at him.

“Literally almost all of you,” he amended, inserting some light-heartedness into it to recover.

“He’s got a point,” Dorian said.

Varric laughed again. “Fair enough, Glowy. Are you saying to give him a chance?”

“Yes,” said Lavellan, taking the escape route and ignoring Solas. They continued through the forest, his companions chattering, but Lavellan was once again acutely aware of Solas’ stare burning the back of his neck.

He was almost glad to have reached their destination, and engaged the Freemen guarding the entrance in a melee. Easily taken care of.

“What is going on here?” came a new voice. A chevalier came out of the mine to investigate — Sister Costeau, he assumed — and she faltered at the sight of them and the fallen Freemen.

She fled back into the mine.

“Hey!” Lavellan gave chase.

“Inquisitor!” Solas called. “Wait—”

But Lavellan was already on her trail, descending into the tunnels, passing carts filled with large deposits of red lyrium. Lavellan hooked onto one of the carts and yanked. Its contents scattered in front of Costeau and blocked her path. She stopped.

Lavellan was gaining on her, daggers raised—

A cry and a flash was his only warning before a shield rammed into his side.

He went sprawling, daggers clattering ahead of him. Lavellan groaned and clutched at his ribs, his bones jarred, vision swimming.

He blinked up at his attackers, the torchlight flickering over their faces. Three Freemen with Sister Costeau. One of them threw her a sword and shield.

She rushed at him. The others leapt to action.

Lavellan darted away from a slash, her blade clanging as it hit the stone floor.

“This is the Inquisitor Lavellan they speak of?” she asked. He ducked another slash, danced away from the other two Freemen. “Not very impressive.”

Four of them. He could do it; he had handled fifteen Venatori at once.

An arrow whistled past his ear. 

_You weren’t caught off-guard then_.

Lavellan clenched his fist. He opened a sunder above them and they cried, the force of the Fade pulling at them as he lunged for his daggers. Almost dropped one because of the electric pain racing up his arm.

Footsteps rushed into the mine. A prismatic glow approached. 

“Mercy!” Bull cried, his axe glimmering in his hands.

“Take care of the Freemen,” said Lavellan, dropping into a stance. “Costeau is mine.”

“ _Mahanon_ ,” Solas barked but Lavellan ignored him. He closed the sunder and charged at Costeau.

Solas’ barrier sprung around him and deflected her strikes, but there was no need. Lavellan dodged her attacks easily enough. Her movements were predictable, typical of a chevalier, and Lavellan had had enough of chevaliers.

Her dominant foot shifted, body twisting, shoulders raising — precursors to a shield bash.

Lavellan leapt out of the way. It placed him in a perfect position behind her.

He slashed the back of her knees.

It was a swift victory from there.

He turned to the rest of his companions who had eliminated the rest of the Freemen. Bull sheathed his axe, the prismatic blade vanishing with the press of a button which plunged them back into the mine’s dimness. Only the eerie glow of the red lyrium and dancing torch fire lit the space.

Solas scowled at him, the flames on his staff vanishing. “Have you left your senses in Halamshiral?”

“What’s got you mad now?” asked Lavellan, pitch rising in his incredulity.

“I told you to wait,” he said, matching the rise in Lavellan’s pitch. “You charged headlong into the opposition’s territory without knowing the terrain. You were ambushed.”

“It was hardly an ambush. Just caught by surprise.”

He let out a sharp breath. “Is that meant to reassure me?”

Whatever argument brewing was thankfully cut short by someone crying out, “Is somebody there?” It came from deeper within the mine. “Please, help us!”

Lavellan sheathed his daggers and followed the cry, raised his hand and lit the way with the Anchor, its green glow flickering.

What had that outburst been about? If Solas’ ire stemmed from worry, then he really needed to work on conveying it in a less combative manner.

Lavellan glanced at the Anchor.

_You are dying, you know?_

So much for worry.

Lavellan clenched his jaw. Still, Solas had known. All this time he had known that the Anchor was slowly killing Lavellan and he still— He hadn’t said _anything_. He— Did Lavellan ever really _matter_? Was he a brief distraction, a body to warm his bed, an interesting specimen from a ‘broken’ world? Did he ever fucking _mean anything_?

The Anchor flared, a brief burst of light.

“Whoa, shit,” said Bull. The Anchor returned to a glow. “You good, Mercy?”

“Yeah,” he muttered and reached a cavern housing a few supplies. There were cells at the very back.

“Over here!” the woman called out, a few more people in the cell with her. Fairbanks’ people.

“Are you Fairbanks’ missing?” Lavellan asked. “We are the Inquisition. He has asked us to find you.”

“Oh I knew he wouldn’t forget us,” she sighed in relief. “There! The keys are hanging on the column near those crates!”

After freeing the grateful refugees, he sent them back with Bull and Solas as their escort and remained in the cavern to destroy the lyrium deposits and gather more information on the Freemen and their leaders.

Dorian cleared his throat as Lavellan was reading over the documents Varric had found.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Lavellan folded the letter. “It _was_ alright until Solas got pissy.”

Dorian frowned. “He was worried, I assume.”

_“Perhaps I will wait for you to die first so I will stand unopposed.”_

“Good for him,” said Lavellan, throat thick, and called Varric so that they could leave.

* * *

“Inquisitor, no!”

That was either Cassandra or Solas, but it was too late because Lavellan was already mid-air and plunging his daggers into the giant’s nape. The next series of events were a blur. It involved a rock, a loud roar, falling from a significant height, and his life flashing before his eyes for… what, the fourth time now? Fifth? Anyway, _that_ didn’t matter. What mattered was that Lavellan was safe on the forest floor with about three barriers stacked over him and a dead giant by his feet.

His companions berated him during the whole walk back to camp.

If Lavellan thought the week had started off terribly, it somehow got worse. Specifically, _Solas_ got worse, if that was possible.

At first, it had been disapproving looks after fights, and then he’d started pulling Lavellan back by the arm before he could charge at an enemy, and today, he’d messed with how they usually handled combat.

Lavellan and Cassandra were in the middle of battling Duhaime the Venatori commander, a giant boulder of a man wielding a greataxe as if it were a twig, when Solas’ barrier surrounded Lavellan. Except, this was different. Lavellan liked Solas’ barriers because it didn’t sacrifice flexibility for durability. It moved with you. Accommodated you.

Yet this barrier was rigid, heavy. Lavellan stumbled and almost got his head lopped off.

Lavellan had no choice but to pull back and let Cassandra deal most of the damage lest he prematurely lose an arm.

Once he and Cassandra defeated Duhaime and the others had dealt with the rest of the Venatori, he rounded his murderous look on Solas.

“What,” seethed Lavellan as he marched up to him, “the hell was _that_?”

Solas stared back, unfazed. “Has ‘thank you’ been replaced?”

“Thank you?” Lavellan asked, incredulous. “ _Thank you_? What the hell was with that barrier? Don’t experiment mid-combat!”

“Perhaps I would not feel the need to resort to such measures if you actually exercised more caution. You have been charging recklessly into battle lately.”

“I’ve been operating how I usually do.”

“Yes, and your usual operations involve a lack of self-preservation! You cannot keep throwing yourself at the enemy with the assurance that you’ll survive each encounter.”

“Are you doubting my abilities?” Lavellan asked, bristling. “Really? You’re going to start doubting _now_?” 

_I could kill you where you stand._

Lavellan didn’t say that.

“This was never about your prowess,” Solas threw back.

Vivienne cleared her throat pointedly, expression admonishing. “Now is not the time. Save your disputes for later in private.”

Lavellan let out an irate huff but he backed down. Vivienne was right. But—

“Don’t ever do that again,” he warned Solas lowly. “Not mid-battle, not without communication.”

“And you are a beacon of excellent communication?” Solas asked.

“Enough,” Vivienne said.

They shot each other a final irritated look before separating.

Their interactions went even further downhill from there. Lavellan stopped taking Solas with him, assigned him to far-away tasks and braced himself for any complaints, but Solas said nothing about it, only went about the tasks diligently. But the moment they spent a second with each other, it was back to snarks and retorts and terse conversations which teetered into arguing.

The fact that they had camped beside a Fen’Harel statue helped little.

Lavellan focused instead on taking care of the Freemen and most of the Red Templars, and helping the refugees move into Argon’s Lodge.

And collecting evidence about Fairbanks’ noble lineage.

He approached Fairbanks, who was busy fixing one of the cabins that had been destroyed during the Inquisition’s seizing of the lodge. Fairbanks caught sight of him and started.

“Inquisitor!” he said and dropped the planks of wood he had been carrying in surprise. He grimaced and chuckled as he picked them up. Lavellan helped him. “I apologise. I was— You startled me.”

Lavellan smiled. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem,” he said, smiling back. They set the planks down and Fairbanks dusted off his hands.

Lavellan nodded at the cabin. “Do you need help? We did kind of destroy it. A little. Sorry.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “You have already done much for us, thank you. Again, I do not know how I can ever repay you.”

“You have no debt with us, Fairbanks.” Lavellan hesitated. “Though there is… something I want to discuss.”

He gestured at himself. “I am all ears. Although a little sweaty. Would you like me to change? Maker, I probably smell,” he muttered to himself.

“No,” he laughed, “it’s alright.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the midwife’s journal he had found and presented it. Fairbanks took it, curious. “Clara had a few speculations about your lineage.”

Fairbanks stared at him, smile vanishing.

“And I have found the proof. But I have a suspicion that you already know about it.”

His jaw clenched, before he sighed.

“She has good intentions,” said Fairbanks, “but this will not change anything. I have no wish to reclaim the name of a man who has shunned his daughter and murdered her lover. My mother deserved far better. The life of a noble is a gilded cage.”

Lavellan’s eyes saddened. “I know. And I am sorry about what you and your mother had to go through.”

“So you will let me keep this to myself?” he asked.

He pressed his lips. “No.”

Fairbanks stared at him. “No,” he echoed.

“The nobility doesn’t care about the common folk, that much you well know,” said Lavellan. “But _you_ do. If you reclaim your name, the Inquisition could help install you in court. From there you can have the means to help those your fellow nobility would not otherwise deign to help.”

His expression soured. “It is politics, Inquisitor. I may be of noble birth, but that does not mean I am noble-raised. I cannot navigate it.”

“We’ll help you. And you’re a charismatic man, I think you’ll be able to pull it off.”

A small smile pulled at his lips. “You think me charismatic?”

“Of course. I’m not blind.”

Fairbanks snorted, but his mirth faded as he eyed the midwife’s journal in his hand.

Briala could watch over the elves, Fairbanks could watch over the common folk, and Empress Celene would feel the Inquisition’s watchful eye breathing down her back. Would make her behave for a while longer.

“Please, Fairbanks,” said Lavellan and clasped Fairbanks’ shoulder. Fairbanks looked back at him. “No one is looking after them. I wish I could, but I’m—” His expression twisted. “I’m just one man. I can’t watch over everyone.”

He gave a small smile. “You are certainly managing.”

Lavellan returned it. “I had help. And I would like to keep having his help. If needed, I could teach you how to navigate court myself, or get you in touch with instructors. I know how to make the Orlesians dance, and I can teach that song to you.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” said Lavellan. “But it’s a start. You don’t have to be the man your grandfather was. You will not become him. You can take the name of Lemarque and make it into something better.”

Fairbanks looked away, watching the refugees within Argon’s Lodge.

“Please?” Lavellan asked. “For them? Consider it.”

“I—” He let out a short huff of laughter and glanced back at Lavellan, smiling wanly. “Are these the words you have used against the nobility?”

Lavellan kept his gaze steady. “Maybe.”

Fairbanks sighed. “I will think on it, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you,” said Lavellan. He patted Fairbanks’ shoulder. “I’ll see you around. Are you sure you don’t need help with the cabin?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said and smiled, waved him off. “Go on. I am certain you have other matters to attend to. I need some time to myself.”

Lavellan nodded and bid him farewell, walking back to camp. It would be good if Fairbanks accepted. It would certainly keep Orlais in check.

There was nobody at camp yet. Lavellan scowled at the Fen’Harel statue once more.

Last time, he had let Fairbanks keep it a secret, but what if this time—

The tones of the wooden wolves approached. Lavellan’s face soured further.

He turned. Solas had arrived, expression grim.

 _Ignore him_ , Lavellan told himself.

“Fascinating,” said Solas. “You would have Briala for the elves and now Fairbanks for the common folk. How pleasing for you.”

Lavellan bristled and faced him. “You were eavesdropping.”

“I merely overheard,” said Solas. “Such sweet compliments you gave. Such convincing words you said to manipulate him into being another piece that you can set in the heart of Orlais. ”

“My sentiments were sincere, don’t insinuate otherwise.”

“But would I be mistaken?” he asked, tone mocking. “You wish to set about changing Orlais, and what better way to do so than by instating two figures who share your boundless and fatal idealism into Orlesian court?”

Boundless and fatal― 

“What is your problem?” Lavellan snapped. “You’ve been like this the entire week. If I’ve done something to displease you, just spit it out instead of making snide asides.”

Solas stared at him coolly. “I have no quarrel with you. Do not try to start one for the sake of it.”

“Your actions suggest otherwise. I don’t read minds, Solas. If you have a problem with me—”

“Must my grievances always revolve around you?” he cut off. “I had not taken you for a narcissist, Inquisitor. Do you recall what sentiments you had made about losing yourself in your role? Have you forgotten so soon? Has leadership and power inflated your ego? Have you grown used to your extended reach already, come to think of yourself invincible? Does it gratify you to know that whatever you desire, you will attain?”

Lavellan stared at him, teeth grinding so hard that it echoed in his ears. “No quarrel with me, he says,” he repeated, voice low. “Go on, get it out of your system instead of stewing in your corner.”

“Oh, and you suddenly find it within yourself to listen, do you?”

“I’ve been listening!”

“Have you?” Solas asked. “Ah, yes, forgive me. I seem to see you have stopped heedlessly throwing yourself onto the path of reckless behaviour because you’ve deigned to _listen_ to the loud concerns that the others have long been expressing. That you are listening to Fairbanks’ requests to remain separate from the perils of court just so you could implant your influence in Orlais further despite the great shadow your hand already casts across the empire! Such superb listening.”

Lavellan scowled. “I’m giving him time to think about it. I’m not going to coerce him.”

“But that is exactly what you are doing,” he snarled, voice growing into its impassioned volume. “It may not be forceful, but you are manipulating him into it; appealing to his empathy.”

“That isn’t true!”

“Oh, and you are the model of truth?” His grip tightened on the staff, eyes sparking. “You’ve become so embroiled in the causes you champion. You preach about helping others and yet you would gladly endanger them in the name of _your_ greater good.”

Lavellan’s jaw almost dropped because look who was fucking talking!

“You blind others and encourage their foolish naiveté because you seem to be under the delusion that one man can change an empire overnight.”

“Well I did, didn’t I?” he challenged hotly. “One night was all it took.”

“To have Orlais eating out of your hands? Do you expect me to congratulate you for that?”

“You were certainly singing your praises that night.”

His face grew cold and grim. “Had I realised it would encourage your hubris, I would have refrained.”

“My _hubris_?” he nigh shrieked, shoulders rising, a hot flush constricting in his chest, opened his mouth to argue but Solas cut him off once more.

“Disregard your own safety, ignore the pleas of those around you, force others into a position they wouldn’t wish to be in for your ideals. Throw yourself wholeheartedly into your causes. Go ahead and give the elves their homeland.” He sneered. “Burn yourself if you must, but I will not have you drag others into your wildfire.”

A short, hurt breath left him, the words having punched it out of his lungs. Lavellan pressed his lips into a tight, furious line, as if that would conceal how deep the words had buried. 

“You and your clever little words,” Lavellan spat, slightly strangled. “Always know how to make it hurt just to prove your point.”

“And what point is that? That you’ve turned into a proud and arrogant man who has delusions that he’s helping by living to die?”

His breath stuttered, gaze falling on the wolf statue behind Solas. 

_“I cannot love a man who lives to die.”_

Cold horror washed over him, gripped and held him rooted, doused the flames of his fury and left him shackled in its chill. They stared at one another in a dreadful, heavy silence. Lavellan’s expression shifted from an aching sneer into a look steadily growing horrified. Solas took note of the shift.

“Have I hurt the Inquisitor’s feelings?” Solas questioned, the pitch of his voice gone soft yet bitingly cold. “Will I be struck down for insulting a living god?”

Something in Lavellan recoiled. “Enough,” he said but the crack in his voice betrayed any pretences of appearing in control. “I’ve heard you. That’s enough. You’ve made your point.” Did he really— Was he really losing himself again? Was he really playing with lives again? Barrelling into his end goals with nary a care for the aftermath of his march’s relentless pace? Left others in the dust?

Solas’ stare bore into him.

He fixed Solas a bitter, resigned look. “But never call me a living god ever again.”

Solas’ expression pulled even tighter. “Is that not how you’ve been acting?”

“What do you want to hear? ‘You’re right, Solas’? Is that what you want to hear?” Lavellan looked away with a twist to his lips. “You’re right, Solas. There. Does that make you feel better?”

“I did not set out to be proven right,” he said. “And my sentiments hardly matter if you will forget them in a heartbeat.”

Lavellan laughed dryly. “You really think I can forget something like you calling me a living god in a heartbeat?” 

“I do not think you will forget. I fear you will begin to treat it as a compliment.”

“Is there a point to you rubbing salt on an already oozing wound?”

“I have seen this countless of times,” said Solas. “Leaders who begin with noble intentions become perverted by their power and position without their realising. How long before you fall victim to it?”

Lavellan returned his cold stare. “Why are we still talking? You’ve long proven your point.”

Solas smiled mockingly. “Ah. Perhaps the transformation has already begun and I am witnessing its birth. So eager are you to run from the truth of your actions.”

 _Stop it, stop it!_ “Kill me then if I’m starting to turn so terrible.”

A vicious thrill of satisfaction coursed through Lavellan as Solas reeled from the comment. But he hardened and Lavellan’s victory didn’t last long.

“I need not do that when you throw yourself into the jaws of death every day.”

Lavellan opened his mouth but no sound came out so he snapped it shut, clenched fists shaking by his sides but he no longer knew which emotion had him trembling. 

“Plant a tree if I manage it, then,” Lavellan sneered instead.

Something like hurt flashed in his eyes but Lavellan couldn’t be certain and he didn’t care. He didn’t. Solas turned and walked away as he always did. Left Lavellan to stare at his back in fury. At least this was familiar territory — watching Solas leave while Lavellan’s heart burned.

And once the farce of his anger fell, Lavellan crawled into a tent and sat in the dim, Solas’ words haunting him, sunlight barely peering through the tent’s thick canvas.

He curled up atop the bedrolls, staring blankly.

Lavellan must have accidentally fallen asleep because he woke up in complete darkness, the soft chatter of his companions from outside drifting in. He pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes, feeling like shit.

“Hey, where’s Mercy?” asked Bull from outside.

Nobody answered besides Solas who icily said, “Perhaps endangering himself, as is his hobby nowadays.”

Lavellan grumbled. Oh yeah, real endangering this was. Beware napping!

“We have to go find him,” said Cassandra. “He could be in trouble.”

“Surely not,” said Solas. “He is clearly capable and untouchable. Let him rush into his foolhardy choices.”

“Hey, whoa,” said Varric. “I know you two are on bad terms at the moment but that’s a little harsh, Chuckles.”

Lavellan forced himself to stand.

“He never left,” said Cole just as Lavellan snapped the tent flap open and startled his companions. He ignored Solas and called Vergala in his mind. She swooped and perched on his shoulders.

“Do we have dinner?” asked Lavellan, raspy from sleep.

“Uh,” said Varric, “we were going to have the leftovers from yesterday’s rations.”

“Prepare the pot. I’ll get us a ram.” He retrieved his bow from the table and smiled grimly at Solas. “But let’s put his theory to the test. Am I untouchable? After all, he loves nothing more than being proven right.”

Solas’ shoulders hitched. “I will not have you hurt yourself just to prove a point!”

“Yet strangely, you would hurt me just to prove _yourself_ right.”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian hissed. “What is going on with you two? This is getting out of hand.”

“I agree,” said Solas evenly. “Perhaps if it came from someone other than me, you will finally listen.”

“I listened, you shit!” Lavellan snapped, at the end of his patience, worsened by the inertia from his nap. “You’re the one who wouldn’t leave it alone. I said I heard you. You could’ve stopped there but you just kept _going_. Was it a nice power trip? Did you feel more in control?”

Solas turned his head away, the firelight highlighting the irate edge in his eyes.

“Perhaps it is best if you get that ram, darling,” said Vivienne, surprisingly gentle. “And to ease any… concerns, choose one or two of us to bring with you.”

The name left his lips before he could think about it. “Cassandra.”

That took Cassandra aback, but the surprise didn’t last long— she was already grabbing her weapons and falling into place beside him with a small nod and no words needed. Lavellan swallowed the torn sob in his throat.

They headed into the forest in silence and Lavellan kept the Anchor at a steady glow. Soft enough to light their way but not so much that it would frighten the animals or garner unwanted attention. Vergala took flight to serve as surveillance.

“Is everything alright between you and Solas?” she asked once they were far away from camp, then grimaced, likely chided herself for a poor question because it was obvious the answer was no.

“Am I becoming ruthless?” he asked rather than answer. Talking to Cassandra had always been calming and objective. He trusted she would deliver the hard truths without over or underplaying them.

Cassandra frowned at him. “Ruthless? No, I don’t believe so.”

“Careless?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation and he stopped walking, turned to her, the green glow of the Anchor casting them in angular shadows. But her eyes were sorrowful rather than angered. The expression punched him in the chest. It was the very same look she had given him in the past.

Lavellan pushed those thoughts aside before he could think of the knife through her gut.

“But not the careless you think of,” said Cassandra.

“What then?” he asked, hated how it sounded as if he was begging.

“You are not careless of others; you are careless with yourself.” She sighed. “Perhaps Solas did not go about it commendably—” he snorted— “but the core of his sentiments, I suspect, stem from the same place as my concern. As everyone’s concerns.”

“And what are the concerns?” he asked.

“That you sacrifice your well-being.” She frowned further. “I think we are doing good work under your leadership and direction, but it is worrying how little you seem to care about yourself.”

His grip on the bow tightened.

“I worry that perhaps… That perhaps we have been remiss in showing you that you hold merit and value on your own and that you do not have to help others to earn it. That you deserve respect on your own. As a person. Not as Inquisitor or Herald.”

Lavellan looked down, unable to meet the sincerity of her gaze and words. “Solas says the power and position of Inquisitor is getting to my head.”

“He is frightened.”

He blinked at the response and stared at her.

Cassandra shifted her weight from foot to foot. A nervous habit. “I cannot claim to know Solas, or even how his mind works, but this I can say with confidence: he cares for you, very much. As do we all. I think it frightens him that one day, in your bid to help others, you will forget to help yourself.” Cassandra shook her head. “And I fear the same. I fear that one day, you will neglect yourself so much that you give your life away. Prematurely. We do not want you taken from us early.”

His heart twisted. _And I didn’t want you dying from my hand, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?_

She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and fixed him a resolute stare. “I will not prevent you from aiding others because that is a part of you, but I pray that you realise you needn’t give all of yourself away while doing so.”

It was silent after her declaration and admission, filled by the sounds of nocturnal creatures. Lavellan took a few steadying breaths. Cassandra squeezed his shoulder.

“Please take better care of yourself,” she said. “You have much good left to do.”

“We don’t get to choose when we die,” he said feebly.

“No,” she agreed. “But if I can presume to ask, live with us rather than die for us.”

Dorian had said the same thing, hadn’t he?

A shaky laugh spilled from him and he hung his head. “I’ve forgotten how to do that,” he admitted wretchedly.

“Allow us to remind you.”

He looked up at her, at the steadfast conviction glinting like sparks on steel in her eyes, missing her more than he could bear. 

“If I do turn out to be horrible—”

“You will not,” she said in a tone which brooked no arguments.

“You don’t know that.”

“You will not,” she said again. As final as a mountain deciding a plot of land was as good a place as any to rest and plant itself down, immovable until the end of time. And Lavellan, helpless against such a strong faith, could only nod. “Do you believe it?”

“No,” he answered truthfully because that, at least, he could reveal to her. Lying to her was harder than lying to Solas. 

That didn’t deter her. She gave another firm nod. “Then we will help you see.”

“A tall order,” he said with a small smile.

She smiled back. “So was creating the Inquisition. Everything will fall into place.”

Lavellan dearly hoped so. He tipped his head towards the direction where the new Argon’s Lodge lay. “Come on, I want to pay Fairbanks a visit before we get some ram.”

“How come?”

“I owe him an apology.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cries* my god, they got WORSE. They argue in such an unhealthy manner. Communication who?
> 
> (Cassandraaaaa 😭😭)
> 
> Lavellan: I'm Mad and Sad so i'm going to sleep  
> You're a mood Lavellan.
> 
> Also, [eolenart](https://eolenart.tumblr.com/) [drew a contrast of how Wicked Eyes ended](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/637060894519623680/eolenart-the-end-of-the-ball-in-the-past-vs-the) between the first and current timeline haha. Lavellan gets laid vs Lavellan gets problems. Thank you so much, mwah!


	49. Their plea to stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoW BOUT THAT NEW DA4 TRAILER HUH??? 
> 
> tevinter looks great and then i remember it was built on the backs of slaves :)) would be a shame if... someone organised a slave uprising...

_a call for reform—_

* * *

Things between Lavellan and Solas turned from a spiking flare to a dull chill. Lavellan wasn’t sure whether constant arguing was better than no speaking at all, wasn't sure which of them was being childish _—_ or were they both being childish? _—_ but they had to sort out whatever this was. But Lavellan let it be since they were still heated about it. Maybe they could have a constructive discussion later without someone immolating a tree.

“Inquisitor,” Scout Harding greeted.

Lavellan looked down from the tree he’d been perched on and smiled. A flower necklace hung around her neck, braided in a distinctly Dalish style.

“Scout Harding,” he returned. “I’m guessing visiting Clan Venalin went well?”

“I think the kids were happy to finally have someone who isn’t that much taller than them.”

“Are they alright?” he asked and made his way down.

“They’re fine. This grumpy-looking girl was looking for you.”

He landed and dusted off his hands, smiling. “What did she say?”

“Just asking when you’d come see them,” she said. “I told her you still had to deal with a few things. Do you know her?”

“I’m mentoring her,” he said. “Must be getting impatient. Did she look angry?”

“No, just very frowny. Like a _this is making me want to tear grass out_ kind of frowny.”

He laughed. “Maybe I can briefly visit for a day.”

Scout Harding opened her mouth to reply but Lavellan felt a presence behind him and he tensed, turned—

Something solid barrelled into him and the world tilted, spun, and he fell flat on his back with a yelp. The face hovering over him flashed a vicious, victorious grin.

“Ha!” crowed Revasha. “I got you! You didn’t notice me.”

Lavellan smacked her braid out of his face. “Vasha? What are you doing here?”

“You were taking too long so I went and came myself,” she said as he got up and brushed himself off, pulling a few dry leaves from his hair with a grumble.

“Did you tell anyone you left?”

“I did,” she said.

Lavellan shot her an unimpressed look. “Did you tell them _where_ you were going?”

“The forest.”

“Da’vherassan[1], you _live_ in a forest.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“This place is crawling with demons, Red Templars, Venatori, rogue Freemen, and who knows what else,” he scolded. 

Her shoulders and expression tightened, her lips pressing, the victorious glimmer in her eyes dulling. She scuffed her foot on the floor. Lavellan recognised the look immediately. The very same look he had worn when he was younger and received chastisement instead of praise for a job well done.

Creators, he was turning into his old Warleader.

Lavellan reached out instead and patted her shoulder. “But other than possibly endangering yourself,” he said, “you’re right, I didn’t hear or notice you until the final second. Well done.”

That at least rekindled the pride in her eyes.

“How did you get here?” he asked. 

Revasha nodded at Harding. “I followed her.”

His brows raised and he turned to Harding. “You didn’t notice her?”

Harding returned his bewildered look. “No!”

Lavellan regarded Revasha again. She couldn’t quite hide the proud puff of her chest this time and he laughed in slight disbelief.

“Impressive,” he said. “Well, you’re here now and you’ve gotten the drop on me. What’s next on your itinerary?”

“I know you’re too busy to continue lessons with me, so I thought I could learn on the field.”

He was back to frowning. “No.”

“I promise not to get in your way! I’ll stay hidden and provide support or back-up in case things go wrong.”

“Vasha, I’m going up against humans with augmented strength, genocidal mages, and the occasional hole in the Veil. I’m not letting you fight with us.”

Her shoulders rose. “This is my home too and I want to help protect it.”

“And the Inquisition won’t be here forever so yes, you’re going to have to protect it when we’re gone,” he fired back. “You need to be alive to do that.”

“I can’t learn how to protect it if you won’t let me!”

“There are better ways to learn.”

“You said yourself the best way to learn was through experience.”

“Actually, I said the best way to learn was through teaching.”

“I can argue with you all day, hahren.”

“So can I. I’m quite skilled at it. I have very argumentative company.” _Ever argued with the Dread Wolf? Not recommended. It goes in circles and somebody ends up crying, usually me._

“How about—” Harding interrupted cheerily— “she practices sneaking about while following you around and watching you fight? She’ll be out of harm’s way, she can practice prowling, and because she’s so good at it, the enemy won’t even see her.”

Revasha grinned. “Sounds great.”

“I think you’re getting too smug for someone who doesn’t even have their vallaslin yet,” he said.

She sniffed. “I’ll get it in a week after my First Hunt.”

Her First Hunt? Then that meant… it was her birthday soon. Was that why she’d asked if he would return within two months?

He slowly grinned. Hers faded in the light of it.

“Vasha… did you want me to return soon because you wanted me here for your birthday?”

“What? No, I just wanted you to teach me more useful things before my First— Stop smiling!”

* * *

Lavellan walked around the Inquisition encampment delivering tasks and overseeing operations and turned it into a lesson. Revasha stuck close, listening, but wary around so many non-elvens.

He hadn’t realised how much actually went into leading. How much he had managed to learn.

“This is a lot,” Revasha said, face scrunching in concentration.

“It is,” he admitted. “And I’m not expecting you to learn it all now. Learning to lead takes time.”

Later, after he’d helped the refugees with menial tasks, Revasha asked, “Why do you help the shems? The moment things go sour, they’ll turn on us.”

“Because they need help,” he said.

She pursed her lips and looked away, face souring, hands clenching. He eyed her but said nothing.

Once the scouts sighted Red Templars over the hill, Lavellan took Sera, Dorian, and Cassandra with him. Revasha slipped away and disappeared. He called for Vergala.

“Keep her out of trouble,” he said and she cawed in response before flying off again.

“So who’s the scrunchy one?” asked Sera.

“My student,” he said. “She wanted to tag along and watch us fight so she can learn.”

“Let her fight then,” said Sera. “Long as her bucket doesn’t get kicked.”

“I’d rather not let her,” he said. “She’s too young.”

“What, I was running with the Friends that age. Age hasn’t got nut over nobs with breeches to their ears. Or wanting food. Alleys don’t give a rat’s arse about it.”

Lavellan paused, stared at Sera who frowned back at him.

“What?” she asked.

Before she could duck, he hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her close and crushed her in a hug. Her bony elbows dug into him in her surprise.

“Wha— Let go, you tit!’

He only hugged her tighter. “It must have been very hard,” he whispered, and her struggles faltered. “You’re very strong.” Lavellan pulled away before she got uncomfortable. She pulled a face.

“Don’t drip sap on me now,” she said. “I’m fine.” But her voice was slightly thick.

“Just stating a fact,” he said. She hadn’t had an easy life, and it was something rarely acknowledged, even by her. 

_“I wanted those stupid wheelie horses and almost got my hand lopped for taking it. Wasn’t food, but it was pretty.”_

_Sera broke the cookie in half and offered it to him. She’d gotten so much better at baking and she’d give what she made to hungry, wandering orphans who had nobody to miss them. She’d become the person she’d most wanted to see when she’d been that same hungry, wandering orphan._

_“Wanted food and toys, and get to laugh and have time with it,” she said. “But no. I get to laugh because time_ isn’t _with it and all I got were bones and an angry belly.”_

_She shoved the cookie in her mouth and he opened his arm, let her settle beside him. He wrapped his arm around her while she pulled her knees up and laid her head on his chest._

_“Got taken in by that Lady I told you about,” she said while chewing. “But she made me hate me because what, I got long ears? Big eyes? Then I hate others like that because I’m the wrong kind.”_

_“You’re not,” he murmured._

_“I’ve been an arse.”_

_“You were scared.”_

_She snorted. “Everyone’s scared.”_

_He gave her his half of the cookie. She broke it in half again and gave him the quarter, refusing to eat until he did._

_“I wanted to be golden, you know?” she asked. “Not bones in a rag. Wanted a place but I got nowhere.” Her voice turned strangled and she buried her face in his chest, but she pushed on. “Piss, it wasn’t fair!”_

_“It wasn’t,” he agreed and pulled her closer as if she was that young, bony, hungry orphan who was told she had no place again so he could tell her, “Yes, yes you do. I’ll make sure of it.”_

_“Wish I got somewhere,” she said._

_Her shoulders shook and he held her tighter. His prosthetic was off so he couldn’t do a full hug, but he tried. She recognised what he was trying to do and repositioned herself so she could wrap her arms around his torso and tuck her head just beneath his chin._

_“Wish they made me feel somewhere, gave me something. I got nothing instead. Would have turned into nothing and no one would know because who cares about bones? So I yelled. Real arse about it too. Least I was an arse and not nothing.”_

_She was crying. Lavellan ran gentle fingers through her hair._

_“You’re not nothing,” he said._

_Her sobs grew in volume and she gripped the material of his tunic._

_“Now I got ugly sobs,” she said through the warble of her voice. “And you get ugly sob.”_

_“It’s fine,” he soothed. “You can mourn that your childhood was stolen. It’s alright.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m here.”_

_Her weeping turned furious and she screamed into his chest and he held her through it._

_Eventually, her cries dwindled into sniffling, then silence. The bout of crying had sapped her energy, so she stayed quiet against him, his fingers combing soothingly through her hair._

_“You’re here?” she asked, voice small._

_“I’m here.”_

_“Don’t let him take you away,” she pleaded. “Stay.”_

_To that, he said nothing._

Lavellan pursed his lips at the memory. _I’m sorry, Sera. I couldn’t stay._

He looked back at her over his shoulder, giggling at something Dorian said while Cassandra’s expression soured at whatever it was. 

_“Live with us,”_ Cassandra and Dorian had said.

He hadn’t been able to stay, but Asunara had taken him back and maybe, this time, he should work to stay.

Lavellan stared at his marked hand. This was still killing him, though. He was on borrowed time. _Could_ he stay? He wasn’t sure what was happening with Solas anymore, wasn’t sure what the future held anymore, but if Solas still wanted to press on ahead, then Lavellan would ask him to take the Anchor before leaving. His arm be damned.

They made their way across the forest to where the Red Templars had been spotted, Vergala soaring the skies in surveillance. Revasha made her way across the trees. Hidden for the most part.

Vegala cawed twice above them. The sound of rumbling wheels and clank of armour followed.

Lavellan signalled his team into position and hid behind the large trees, waiting. 

Two seconds passed. 

Three.

The Red Templars came into view, escorting carts of red lyrium. 

“Now!” said Lavellan and they leapt out of hiding. The element of surprise gave them the upper hand as they ripped through the small group. 

A rebellious arrow zipped past him and nailed the Red Templar he had been fighting right in their visor slit. The Red Templar fell. He glared up at the trees.

“Vasha!” he scolded.

Sera blew a raspberry and waved her hand at his face. He sputtered and smacked it away.

“Good shot scrunchy!” she yelled.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“What, good shot innit?” 

He grumbled. It _was_ a good shot.

After the fight, Lavellan retrieved the smuggler letters in the Templars’ pockets while Cassandra shattered the lyrium deposits in the cart and nodded in satisfaction.

It was dusk by the time they returned to the Inquisition camps. Revasha descended the trees and dashed towards Sera.

“How did you do that thing?” she asked, barely holding back the excitement in her tone, and Sera jolted in alarm.

“Do what?” she asked.

“The thing! When you jumped back and flipped and shot mid-air upside down.”

“Oh that? Pft, it’s easy.”

Lavellan sighed. “No, it’s not.”

“Can you teach me?” asked Revasha.

“Uh,” said Sera. “Never taught before. You just… bump your feet and twist a bit and nail a few wigs.”

“What?” asked Dorian. 

She threw her hands up. “I don’t teach!”

Revasha frowned at the ground and Sera rubbed the back of her neck, considering her.

“Why?” she asked. “You got Quisitree over there teaching you how to scare people’s pisspots off their arse.”

“He doesn’t do cool things.”

“Excuse you,” Lavellan said, affronted. “I do cool things!”

Sera shrugged. “Don’t teach, end that. I’m hungry, where’s food?” And off she went.

Revasha stared down, slightly dejected.

“Now, now, don’t feel too bad,” said Dorian. “That’s just Sera. In any case, you’re still in capable hands.”

“He’s busy half the time,” she muttered but her eyes were faraway. The sentiment behind her words may have been more personal than she preferred to let on. “I need to learn in other places too.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” asked Dorian.

“Because my parents are dead and none of us are strong enough to defend the clan,” she snapped, then clammed right back up after the outburst. Dorian stared wide-eyed. Lavellan pursed his lips. She sharply turned on her heel and walked off. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hahren,” she muttered.

“Wait, I’m not letting you walk alone,” he said.

“You’re busy—”

“The Inquisition can survive for a few hours without me.” He handed Cassandra and Dorian the smuggler letters. “Get these sent to Commander Cullen and ask Varric to check in on Hawke and determine the situation in Emprise.”

“At once,” said Cassandra.

“Be back at a reasonable time,” said Dorian.

“Yes mother,” he snorted. “Come on, Vasha. Let’s get you home.”

She faltered but walked beside him when it became evident that he wasn’t joking.

They passed Inquisition soldiers who saluted him on the way, and she stuck close to him again, still unused to so many eyes following her, but that was the problem with being associated with him. Especially since she was his student.

“Sorry,” he said after they were past the Inquisition encampment. “The attention gets uncomfortable, I know.”

“All those shems looking at you,” she said, rubbing her arms. “But they bow to you. Must feel good.”

“Doesn’t,” he said.

“After everything they’ve done?” she hissed. “Come on! Now they have to listen to a Dalish. Tell me that doesn’t feel good.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” he said again. She rounded her disbelieving look on him.

“Not even a little bit?”

“It never lasts long.” Soon, all he’d felt was the responsibility, the weight of lives. They took pieces of him and shaped him into something he wasn’t until some days he couldn’t recognise himself and he had to wonder if he even had a self.

“Don’t you hate them?”

“Maybe once, but it just hurts holding onto it. Spirits aren’t the only ones who can be twisted by strong emotions.”

“How can you say that?” she asked, hands clenching by her sides. “They tried to erase and destroy us. They took the Dales from us!” Her voice rose in pitch. “They gave it to us and then said, ‘Actually, fuck you,’ and then they killed us! And they’re still killing us and we have to keep moving just to stay alive, but I’m tired of moving. Why should we be the ones who have to move? It’s not fair!”

She stopped walking and so did he. His heart twisted in his chest at the pain in her voice, her outcry echoing the one within every Dalish child’s heart. It was the same outcry he had had when he was younger.

_It’s not fair, why us?_

Sometimes, the outcries would return. Faded, but still there. Still crying. 

“It isn’t,” he agreed softly. “And I won’t deny you your anger. You have every right to be. The world is unkind and all it seems to do is take and make monsters.” He placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “So don’t let it make you into one.”

Her brows pulled, mouth pursing, eyes shimmering.

He pulled her close into a side hug. “I’m sorry about your parents. I’m sorry about the friends and loved ones you had to witness die. Be angry and grieve; it’s an injustice.” She shook beside him and he pretended not to see her tears. “But don’t be another monster.”

“I miss mae and bae,” she whispered.

“I know.” His tone softened and he gave her a proper hug. “It hurts, I know.”

“They tell me to pray for them. That Falon’Din will guide them to a better place.” She gripped his coat. “But I don’t want them in a fucking better place. I want them here. I miss mae braiding my hair and I miss bae’s awful sense of humour and I miss when they both danced and I’m sorry for ever thinking they were embarrassing. I just want them back.” She was crying now, struggling to get the words through. 

Her bow and quiver dug into his arms as he hugged her tighter.

She was too young. He stared at the silhouettes of the trees as twilight plunged the forest into darkness, recalling Ellana crying in his arms, wailing, “Mae, mae, come back.”

He’d been twelve, Ellana ten. Four and two when their father had died.

Revasha’s weeping eventually ceased and she pulled back. He offered her a cloth that she gingerly took. 

“Let’s get you home,” he whispered.

Revasha, drained of energy, could only nod and stay close to him as they walked back. 

Lavellan surreptitiously wiped away the tears on his cheeks.

* * *

Revasha returned the next morning with a request from Keeper Hawen. Lavellan accepted the letter and ruffled her hair with a soft smile as a silent question. _How are you feeling?_ She huffed and whacked his hand away. _Fine. Stop nagging_.

“We don’t know where they went,” she said. “And the Keeper can’t dedicate enough people to look for them.”

Their First, Taven, had taken a retinue of hunters with him in search of an elven ruin. They were the only experienced hunters left of Clan Venalin after the unfortunate skirmish with human raiders which had wiped out most of their other hunters, including Revasha’s parents. 

Revasha bit her lip. “They’re the last of our experienced hunters. If they’re dead—”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said. “Some ruins may have collapsed entrances or rubble and it would take some time to clear out if they’re only a small group.”

“Some ruins are also full of traps.”

“I guess we’ll see.” He whistled for Vergala which was needless since she came whenever he wished, but he’d rather not give everyone reason to keep believing Varric’s tale of Lavellan being an Elvhen prince.

She came at the call and perched on his arm.

“Hello clever girl,” he said. “Scout the Graves for me, will you? We’re looking for an elven ruin and Dalish hunters near it.”

She cawed and took off.

“Now then,” he said, “I don’t have much to attend to today. I want to see whether you’ve fixed that godawful elbow.”

“You’re on.”

They sparred for most of that morning until Vergala returned past noon. Lavellan bid her to ask some of his companions to gear up, and his face soured once he dropped Solas’ name. Lavellan had to take him though. The rest that Lavellan chose were the ones Solas seemed closest with in the inner circle: Cole, Bull, and Cassandra.

Some part of him was pleased that Solas seemed to be making friends outside of spirits and Lavellan, but also, Lavellan chose those three for the express purpose of putting a barrier between himself and Solas. 

He finished gearing up and stepped outside his tent, his companions ready and waiting.

“I’m coming.”

Lavellan heaved an almighty sigh and faced Revasha.

“You know what ruins tend to have?” he asked. “Demons and undead.”

“I won’t get in the way. You said the other day I was improving.”

“Da’vherassan—”

“Hahren, please.”

“No.”

“How am I supposed to watch over the Dales when you won’t let me see the danger in it?”

“I said nothing about watching over the Dales. You’re one person, you can’t possibly guard the entire area. You need to watch over your clan, and again, you can’t do that if you die. I don’t want to have to bury you, Vasha.”

Solas was giving him a look. He could feel it.

“And I can’t watch over them if I don’t know what I’m protecting them from.”

“Mamae said not yet,” said Cole, voice low, “too young, not yet, when you’re older. I’m older and there’s blood on my lips and soil under my nails. She’s not here to tell me that I’m older now. They keep telling me to wait.” He peered up from beneath the brim of his hat. “Waiting to waste away? Let me roar.”

Revasha frowned at Cole.

“Alright,” Bull said with a nervous chuckle and pulled Cole’s hat over his face. Cole stared up at Bull but the hat was still over his face and Lavellan wasn’t sure if the scene looked comical or creepy. Bull decided creepy. “He does that. Don’t mind him.”

She cast them an uneasy look before returning her attention to Lavellan.

“This is my home,” continued Revasha. “I want to find the rest of my family.”

Lavellan stared at her, at the resolute fire in her eyes.

“They call me Warleader and I grip the bow tight, the old Warleader buried and bruised,” said Cole, muffled from the hat. “I will protect them. This is my family.”

Lavellan sighed. “Yes, thank you, Cole.” He crossed his arms. “Fine. Come with us, but the moment things go sour, do as before. I suspect you’ll follow us anyway. This way, I can at least keep an eye on you.”

Revasha’s face brightened and she hugged him, and Lavellan forgot to hug her back in his surprise. Not that she hugged him for long anyway.

“Let’s go!” she said, racing ahead.

“Is this wise?” asked Solas.

“At this point, Solas,” said Lavellan, “wisdom is now a spectrum instead of a binary. Let’s get moving.”

Maybe Taven and the hunters had cleared the site and it was already safe and there was nothing to worry about. Revasha was impressive for her age, yes, but that meant little when faced with demons. Lavellan was used to them, but even he struggled some days.

They followed Vergala further north, passing the trees planted for the Emerald Knights, until they spied the crumbled remnants of what was once a mighty bastion. Something in him knew that this could only be the work of Elgar’nan.

Elgar’nan. An unexpectedly sharp emotion flared within him.

> _“Did you hear about Lord Elgar’nan and…” Asunara falters._
> 
> _I pause my reading and look at her over the sheafs of paper in my hand._
> 
> _“Impulsive,” I say. “Breaking his badge of office and throwing it at the All-Father.” I put the papers down. “Though not entirely out of character.”_
> 
> _I’ve long known that the Wolf is an explosion waiting to happen, and explode he has certainly done. I can’t say I’m surprised. He never does things halfway._
> 
> _Asunara crosses her arms. “The All-Father burned the soldiers,” she murmurs. “Because of the Wolf’s actions.”_
> 
> _“Because of their loyalty,” I correct. “Because they have refused to disavow him. But the blame has been pinned on the Wolf to make him feel guilty. Pain is a very compelling method to break someone. Elgar’nan has inflicted physical pain upon the soldiers… and a deeper kind in the Wolf.”_
> 
> _Asunara’s aura shimmers, malcontent. It’s rare for her to be so brazen about her emotions, but I can’t berate her for it._
> 
> _After all, my aura is a mirror of hers._
> 
> _“I think,” I say and steeple my fingers, “that if the All-Father were to burn my soldiers… Well, I think I would be very tempted to kill him.”_

He jolted back into the present and he rubbed his eyes.

“Look,” cried Revasha. “It’s our aravel!”

Sure enough, just beyond the trees peered the red sails of Clan Venalin. Lavellan cleared his head and swallowed the anger as they approached the aravel, but that anger crawled back up his throat at the sight that greeted them.

For past the aravel, just before the large doors into the bastion, lay several elfin bodies charred beyond recognition.

“Oh shit,” murmured Bull.

Revasha took a hesitant step forward, but stopped, staring wide-eyed. Lavellan’s mouth twisted and he almost pulled her back to cover her eyes, but he stopped himself. She’d hate that.

Bull examined the bodies. “Unarmed, and they don’t even have defensive wounds. Taken by surprise.”

Solas read the ambient magic and frowned. “Tevinter magic. Venatori.”

Lavellan’s expression darkened, but he shook it off. That wasn’t important right now. He turned to Revasha who’d remained rooted to the spot, couldn’t take her eyes off the corpses, so Lavellan stepped in front of her and blocked her line of sight. She stared up at him with frightened eyes.

“Breathe,” he reminded gently.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” she snapped.

“I’m worried about _you_ ,” he said, undeterred. “You’re not breathing.” It took a while of coaxing, but she eventually matched the pace of his breaths.

Lavellan hugged her as she trembled, wished he could throw a blanket over her and take her far away from this wretched—

“Our hunters,” she whispered. “They’re gone. Our First— Taven was an idiot but he was—” Her voice cracked and she gripped her bow tighter. “We’re not old enough,” she said. “Half of us aren’t ready to be hunters, but without hunters, we’re doomed. Nobody’s old enough to be Warleader, and the other hunters are too old—”

“It’s alright,” he soothed. “One problem at a time.”

She gripped his coat. “I can’t be Warleader, hahren. I can’t do it. But the other hunters are too old or young or dead. The others can still hunt for food and we can get by but they’re not fighters. We have children—”

“Vasha,” he soothed, “you’re going to be alright.”

“No we’re not!”

“You will be. The old hunters don’t have to fight, but you can still learn from them.” He stepped back and placed both his hands on her shoulders, fixed her with a resolute look. “And I’m here, I’ll teach you all I can. I can buy you time and ensure the area is safe and protected by the Inquisition. There are workarounds.”

“I’m going to kill whoever did this,” she promised.

“These are mages, Vasha. I can’t let you fight them.”

“Please, hahren,” she pleaded.

Lavellan faltered. He didn’t know why, but he looked to Solas for help. But maybe he did know why. It was always Solas who he had turned to for counsel when faced with difficult decisions. 

“No,” said Solas, before his expression softened. “But perhaps she can deliver the finishing blow after you’ve weakened the enemy.”

He faced Revasha. “There. No butchering either. Make it clean and swift.”

“But— After they’ve done this?” she hissed and gestured at the burnt bodies. The smell was awful. Rounded and jagged, invaded every space.

“Vir Tanadhal, Vir Assan?[2]” he asked.

She looked down. “Be swift and silent. Strike true and never waver.”

“Never let prey suffer,” they finished together.

To that, Revasha stayed quiet and Lavellan wished he was better at this, better at consolation, better with choosing the correct words to ease her.

Lavellan stared at the bodies. “We’ll tell Keeper Hawen after, find out what he’d like to do. Is that alright?”

Revasha nodded wordlessly.

“Okay,” said Lavellan softly. “In the meantime, maybe we can put up wards so the bodies aren’t disturbed.”

She nodded again. Solas raised his hands and brought them down, a curtain of his magic shimmering and descending upon the area. With that sorted, they entered the bastion, greeted by an arcade of arches along the wall, each housing twin statues of golden, howling wolves. Lavellan placed his hand upon one of the nearby wolves.

“Well-preserved as always,” he murmured. He caught Solas staring through the reflection on the surface but when he turned, Solas was already looking away.

They encountered the Venatori not that long after and they jumped right into it. Lavellan kept an eye out for Revasha at first, made sure she was away from the fighting, but Bull was guarding her so Lavellan relaxed and focused on his enemies instead.

He was about to deliver the finishing blow on the spellbinder before Revasha barrelled into the binder with a war cry, daggers flashing overhead.

“Vasha!”

She plunged her daggers into the spellbinder over and over, screaming as she did, sent blood spattering.

“Enough!” bid Lavellan but she didn’t listen. He sheathed his daggers and slipped his arms beneath hers, dragged her away. “That’s enough.”

“Let me go!” she cried. “It’s not enough!”

“He’s _dead_ ,” Lavellan said. “That’s enough.”

He let her go and she whirled on him, gnashing her teeth. “No, it’s not! It doesn’t— _feel_ enough. It’s not satisfying at all!”

Lavellan’s expression softened as he gently eased her daggers away and set them down. “That’s it,” he said. “It doesn’t. It rarely does.”

Not the answer she wanted to hear. Her expression twisted and she trembled, face paling. Lavellan recognised the look once her mouth pulled and immediately stepped aside. She turned away and vomited over the stones. Her grieving sobs mixed with the visceral sounds and all Lavellan could do was hold her hair back and rub her back soothingly.

Gods, he was an _idiot._ Why had he allowed her to come? He should have been more adamant, should have put his foot down, instead of exposing her to this kind of danger and distress.

Lavellan offered her his waterskin after so she could rehydrate and wash the taste of sick from her mouth. He guided her towards a collapsed wall and sat her down, facing away from the dead bodies.

“Cloth?” he asked his companions. Solas unslung the pack he always carried and pulled out a clean cloth which he wetted with his own waterskin before handing it to Lavellan.

“Here,” Lavellan said gently and held Revasha close as he carefully wiped the blood off her neck and face.

She gripped his coat, still shaking.

“I think it’s best if you stay here,” he said after he finished. Lavellan rinsed the cloth, wrung it, and returned it to Solas with a grateful nod.

Revasha shook her head. “No,” she croaked. “I’m going with you.”

“Good!” he chirped. “Because I’m staying here.”

“But—”

“You are shaken,” he said softly. “You need to recover and rest.” He turned to his companions. “You go on ahead. See why the Venatori were digging.”

Solas held up a fragment of a seal. “I believe the Venatori were hunting this down. The Emerald Seal, they called it.”

“Good start.” He whistled for Vergala and let her perch on his waiting arm. “If you’re in danger, send her back.” Vergala cawed and perched on Cole’s shoulders. “Go on. We’ll be here.”

The four of them continued, but Cole lingered, fidgeting, attuned to Revasha’s distress. But he shook his head and smiled at Lavellan before following the others.

Quiet hovered around them like a heavy veil.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, breaking the silence. “That was your first kill, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, plastered against his side as if a breeze would rip her away if she let him go. “That was pathetic,” she muttered. “I’m so stupid—”

“No,” he said. “You’re not. Taking a life is a heavy thing to bear, enemy or not. I shouldn’t have—” No. No time for his shortcomings, he’d berate himself later. Right now, the main concern was making sure Revasha was alright. “How are you feeling? Do you need water?”

“‘m fine,” she mumbled. “I thought it’d feel nice. Or… I don’t know, _better_. But they just died. Like that. They didn’t suffer. It wasn’t satisfying at all.”

“No,” he agreed. “But are you going to keep going until you feel satisfied?”

She didn’t answer. He sighed.

“Vasha, anger is powerful. Anger tells you that you’ve been wronged, anger gives you strength. But anger and vengeance twist you if you let them stay too long.”

Disjointed sensations and memories of overpowering and blinding rage flickered through him and he lowered his gaze in shame.

“But they killed Taven! And Eri and Aisha and Raenathe and—” Her breathing hitched again and she struggled with her words. Lavellan pulled her closer and held her securely, let her hide her face into his chest.

“I know,” he murmured. “And you’ve killed those responsible. Let the fact that they can’t go on hurting and killing others again be enough.”

Her grip tightened on his coat but she stayed quiet and he let her, held her until her shaking eased, until her grip loosened somewhat and she breathed deeper.

“You barely flinch when you kill,” she said, subdued, “but I’m still here shaking.”

“We’re fighting in a war,” he said. “War makes a mess of things. We’ve gotten used to taking life, understand its necessity, but I always try to respect their deaths and I don’t butcher. But I hope you will never have to put up with that.”

“I’ll have to again, at some point,” she said. “I’m a hunter. I have a duty to protect and provide for the others.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But if that time comes, I hope you keep in mind what I said. Follow the Vir Tanadhal.”

A balmy breeze swept past and rustled the leaves, breathed into the Graves. Revasha’s shaking stopped but she didn’t let go and they stayed there.

“What was your first kill like?” she asked.

He hummed. “Raiders got too close to the clan. I managed to kill three. After making sure my hunters and the others weren’t hurt, I went into the forest to vomit.”

“That’s why you moved away so fast,” she said, laughing weakly. “You knew I was about to hurl.”

He smiled, rubbed her back comfortingly.

It was quiet for another few moments before she pulled away, looking down at her hands on her lap.

“I’m sorry I called you Harellan before,” she said. “You were just… frightening.”

He stared. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Yet you still approached me.”

“I wanted to prove to myself that I’m brave enough to.”

Lavellan chuckled. “Ah, so I was the scary monster that the children dared each other to approach.”

“You laugh but that’s exactly what happened. One of my friends called me chicken. Should’ve seen the look on his face when I said you were going to teach me.” She wrung her fingers. “It’s just— You were like us, but you weren’t. We were scared you’d forgotten what it was like to be Dalish. We were scared you would turn on us. You come leading this group that say you’re the prophet of _their_ god. You lead the same group of people who’ve been trying to erase us for so long.”

“I never asked to lead them,” he murmured.

“Do you wish you weren’t their leader?”

“Most times,” he said and looked away. “But I’m still Dalish. I haven’t forgotten.”

“We know that now. And you’re still kind of weird, but I think that’s just you.”

“Hey!”

“You are,” she said and managed a weak laugh. “You’re so weird. But… thanks. For teaching me and being nice to me. Sorry I was such an ass to you.”

Her mood wasn’t lifted, not really, but she was no longer shaking and that was a start.

“Got any ideas on how I can look less frightening?” he asked.

“I don’t think you can. It’s just your face. Put a bag over it?”

“Draw a happy face on the bag.”

She nodded. “Put some flowers on top.”

“I’ll take it up with my requisition officers,” he said gravely. “It’s for the greater good.”

Revasha snorted, then laughed, and the sound was less heavy. Lavellan smiled.

His companions eventually returned, battle-worn.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Demons,” grunted Bull. “A fuckload of them.”

Solas passed Lavellan a scroll and paper rubbings of plaques. “An account of the event which catalysed the Exalted March. It seems these ruins are the final resting place of the Emerald Knights. The Din’an Hanin.” Lavellan unrolled the scroll and read the true accounts.

It was a mess. A story of betrayal and lost love.

Revasha took it gingerly from him and he almost snatched it away, almost covered her eyes, but that would be a disservice. She deserved to see it, read the truth. He couldn’t shelter her. He mustn’t. In another world, a safer world, maybe he could have done that, but not in this world.

“We betrayed kin,” she said, eyes wide, before something sombre and grave darkened it. Made her look far older. “So, they weren’t really heroes,” she muttered.

Something wrenched in Lavellan’s chest.

“Perhaps,” said Solas and Lavellan frowned at him. “The Chantry call them butchers, the Dalish view them as romantic heroes. However, there is always a semblance of truth to accusations.” He tilted his head and Revasha gave him a quizzical look. “Perhaps they weren’t the faultless, gleaming heroes that you were led to believe, but they still defended the Dales. War and conflict rarely have neatly cut lines. Whatever the case, they attempted to stand for the elves. Know that they tried. _That_ , I suppose, is something you may take comfort in.”

Lavellan blinked at him, eyes wide, but Solas wouldn’t look at him.

Revasha frowned to herself, before she returned the scroll to Lavellan.

“We’ll give this to the Dalish,” said Lavellan. “It’s uncomfortable, but it’s important.” Vergala perched on Lavellan’s shoulders as he stood. “Come, let’s get you home.”

He helped Revasha up and let her hold onto his arm as he waited for her to regain her bearings. Her knees shook and she grimaced.

“If you still feel ill,” said Solas, “I have a spell which can relieve nausea.”

“I’ll be fine,” she muttered. “Thank you.”

They walked back to the Inquisition camp, but it was dark when they arrived and Lavellan wasn’t sure if Revasha was up for the trek back, so he convinced her to stay with the Inquisition for the night and sent a letter back so Keeper Hawen wouldn’t worry. They also lent her some spare clothes since hers was bloodstained.

Lavellan stood by the fringes of camp, half-hidden by the shadows of the trees. Revasha was by the campfire, surrounded by a few scouts and some of his companions, and he smiled as she laughed at something Sera and Bull said.

“Why aren’t you joining them?”

He turned his head just as he heard the wooden notes of Solas’ wolves.

Lavellan looked away. “Why aren’t you?”

Solas didn’t answer. Didn’t fill the silence with banter or a precursor to a discussion and Lavellan hadn’t realised how much that stung.

It was quiet for another few, crushing seconds, before Solas finally broke it and said, “Do not blame yourself for what happened with Revasha today.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Predictable, rather.”

“Well we can’t have that,” he said wryly.

“I trust you taught and consoled her well in the aftermath,” said Solas. Lavellan scanned the sentiment for any insincerity and found none.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Solas,” Lavellan admitted. “I don’t know how much I should expose her to, how much I should shelter her.”

“All birds must leave the nest,” he said.

“Yeah, ease them instead of giving their backside a boot off the edge.”

“Revasha was already falling. You taught her to fly before she could hit the ground.”

He pursed his lips and looked up at the stars. “She should be worrying about her hunt, not… this.”

“And you should be worrying about your clan’s next rations, not the fate of the world,” said Solas.

Lavellan didn’t answer.

Near the campfire, Sera took out her bow and showed Revasha something and Lavellan smiled again. Sera _could_ teach. She had the capacity for it, had done it in the past, had trained some of the Jennies herself.

“In any case,” said Solas, “while Revasha may be young and, ideally, should not have gone through what she did at such an age, you are doing the best you can to ensure she is cared for. In the future, she will realise she was taught by one of the best leaders the world has had to offer.”

Lavellan scowled at him. “You’re being contradictory. I thought you said I was, what was it you said? A proud and arrogant man with unparalleled hubris? A living _god_?” he spat, hoped Solas would flinch, but he didn’t. He at least had the decency to look ashamed.

“I did not mean it,” he said softly. “I was… blinded by my fears. My fears that you will forget, that I will have to—” He shook his head “I did not mean it. But I did mean my worry.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me that?” Lavellan asked, doing his best to suppress the flash of hurt. “Instead of yelling at me and accusing me of things you know would hurt me? I let you see who I am and I bared my weaknesses to you but then you use them against me? What am I supposed to make of that?”

Solas bowed his head, gaze downcast.

Lavellan balled his fists, shoulders rising, everything within him shaking. He pulled back his arm.

“I’m about to punch you,” he warned.

Solas frowned. “Why warn me?”

“So you know it’s coming.”

“I do not deserve the warning.”

“No,” agreed Lavellan. “But this isn’t for your benefit. It’s for mine.”

Solas stared. Lavellan waited, fist by his side.

Then, Solas placed his staff down and faced Lavellan. Nodded.

All of Lavellan’s hurt, all his fury, all his sorrow and pain, he packed into his hand.

And punched.

The brief give of skin, the hardness of bone, and a split-second burst of sharp pain.

Solas staggered back. Lavellan gritted his teeth and cradled his sore knuckles. He was still shaking.

Lavellan wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he was unsurprised that he didn’t feel better. Nothing. No vindication. No satisfaction. His hand just fucking hurt.

Solas straightened, one hand to his cheek, expression grim.

It was quiet. Lavellan’s heartbeat was too loud in his ears.

“Nothing,” Lavellan said, huffing out a sharp breath. “Hurting you just ended up hurting me too.”

Solas said nothing. Couldn’t meet Lavellan’s gaze.

Pressure built behind Lavellan’s eyes, but it wasn’t the kind which threatened to spill into tears. Just— there. Lavellan swallowed and shook his hand out.

“I once sought to hurt a man,” Lavellan found himself saying, “because he had hurt me. And it ended with us shoving each other to our graves.” Solas still wouldn’t look at him. “There has to be a better way of doing this.”

Solas let out a soft breath. “What do you suggest?”

Lavellan scoffed. “No. _You_ think of something. I feel like I’ve been pulling our weight all this time. Show me it’s still worth pulling and actually do some hauling your damn self.”

“Do you think it’s worth pulling?”

“Don’t fucking give up before you’ve even begun,” he snapped. “Don’t—” His voice cracked. He recomposed himself. “ _Try_. If you give up, then I’ll know I was right all along.”

Solas finally looked at him, weary. “About what?”

“That you never gave a damn about me.” Lavellan’s mouth twisted, brows pinching, but he fought to keep his expression neutral.

The quiet drowned his lungs. In the distance, faint laughter.

“We have to change,” Lavellan murmured. “This isn’t sustainable.”

“Can we?” he asked, looking as ancient as the trees which stood sentinel in this ancestral forest.

 _“Not in a dream,”_ Lavellan had said to Fen’Harel. They were awake now.

“I’m willing to try,” he said. “Are you?”

Solas stared at the ground.

Lavellan rubbed his eyes. He retreated into the forest and left Solas to think about it, his knuckles throbbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's... something. Progress. A little. 
> 
> MORE CHAPTER ART BY CHILDISH_MIDGET! ONE OF THEM'S MY FAVOURITE SCENES.  
> [Chapter 9](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/637706071474061312/lavellan-turned-expecting-to-find-solas-instead)  
> [Chapter 10](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/637709236919500800/dont-be-afraid-he-said-the-waters-danced-with)
> 
> Also this was 90% Revasha haha, my hand slipped. Lavellan's feeling a little paternal. 
> 
> I'm fuckin laughing tho. This girl just--  
> Cole: *says his creepy shit*  
> Revasha:  
> Revasha: neat. so when can i throw myself at enemies hahren  
> She's got her priorities.
> 
> (Listen, I just have. quite a bit of love for Sera. and i don't get the opportunity to explore her much during the fic since i have to be selective. which is a damn fucking shame on my end. anyway, i love sera, aight?)
> 
> RandomPseudonym commented that they hope Lavellan reforms because of Cass, not because of Solas, and I hope you know I was looking directly at it becoz you were absolutely goddamn right 👁👁
> 
> (psst, hey, i got Cass, Varric, and Cole's POV on when they first realised solas and/or lavellan were in love [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964/chapters/68661981))
> 
> \---
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1] **Da'vherassan** : Little tiger[⇧]  
> [2] **Vir Tanadhal, Vir Assan?** : The Way of Three Trees, the Way of the Arrow? (The Vir Tanadhal is a philosophy that Dalish hunters follow and the Way of the Arrow is the first tenet)[⇧]


	50. A hand to the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Self-care checkpoint! Reminder to walk, stretch, hydrate, eat, or sleep if you're able to :)]
> 
> My proofreader's busy this week so this chapter wasn't proofread by anyone else besides yours truly, lmao, sorry we back to the sleep-deprived chapters.
> 
> No update next week unfortunately because I'm taking a short break due to some personal stuff. It's just been a harrowing week and I'd like to give myself time to grieve and recover. I'll see you all in January! (In 2021 *shudders*). In the meantime, happy holidays <3 Last chapter of 2020!

_successors of the morning light—_

* * *

“I wish to give a mourning halla to Red Crossing,” said Keeper Hawen as they walked through the clan’s aravels. Gazes still followed Lavellan, but they were more curious than wary, and their suspicion had lessened significantly since Lavellan’s first meeting with them. The clan was warmer now, more welcoming. The edges of his homesickness were dulling. “We both had a part to play in the tragedy. If you could somehow get them to accept this gesture…”

“I’ll see what I can do,” promised Lavellan.

“Thank you, da’len.”

“How is everyone feeling about the information?”

Keeper Hawen stopped walking and sighed, clasping his hands behind his back as he glanced skywards. “Various reactions, but this was what Taven wanted to give to us, and so, no matter how sour the taste, we will accept it.” He shook his head. “And it is history. If the Emerald Knights were willing to accept their folly, so must we. Now the other problem is the lack of a First. Valorin is no longer with us too.”

“Are you the only mage left in Clan Venalin?” he asked.

“For now. The young ones may end up being mages, I am not certain. If not, we will simply have to find another clan with a surplus of mages.” He smiled and turned to face Lavellan. “But not all is tragic. Revasha’s sixteenth is in four days. Tradition dictates that she dances with a guardian during the bonfire. Usually a parent but…”

Lavellan’s expression turned grim. But Revasha had no parents. “If not the parents then the Keeper,” Lavellan said. “Or she chooses another guardian.” Another relative or parental figure within the clan. Lavellan had chosen the old Warleader when he’d come of age and Ellana had chosen the Keeper.

“She has chosen you.”

Lavellan blinked. Keeper Hawen’s smile turned amused.

“Me?” asked Lavellan. “Doesn’t she have aunts or uncles or older cousins? Or even the elders in Clan Venalin. Seriously, _anyone_ else more qualified than me?”

“Her father had no siblings, her uncle passed away when she was young, and she has no cousins. She views the elders with respect, but I think, ultimately, she feels a more familial bond with you.”

His heart clenched. “We haven’t known each other that long,” he said. “And I’ve been remiss with her. I exposed her to— Well…” Lavellan looked down, lips pursing.

Keeper Hawen placed a solid hand on his shoulder. “Da’len, we do not get to choose the duration it takes to feel attached to somebody. You have given her direction and guidance and care, especially at such a vulnerable and significant time of her life. Perhaps she’s been exposed to events she shouldn’t have gone through at her age, but you were there to catch her when she fell. That is all we can ask. Will you consider leading her through her dance?”

“Why didn’t she ask me herself?”

“I suspect she felt embarrassed. Or afraid you wouldn’t take her request seriously. If you wish to decline guardianship, that is also alright.”

Lavellan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve forgotten the dance. Someone will have to remind me.”

Keeper Hawen’s smile brightened into a radiant beam. “We have four days,” he assured.

* * *

“Nervous?” asked Lavellan.

Revasha tightened her grip on her bow but her gaze remained resolute. “Not about the hunt. More nervous about the vallaslin.”

It was the morning of her sixteenth birthday. The day would begin with her First Hunt, and after returning with a creature that she’d hunted, Revasha would receive her vallaslin. After the vallaslin: the bonfire dance and the feast.

Solas was on a stump a small distance away from them, transcribing the paper rubbings they’d found in Din’an Hanin to give to Clan Venalin. He looked up at Revasha’s mention of the vallaslin. His cheek was still bruised.

Lavellan looked away.

“It’s just— My friends have always known what vallaslin they want to get but I don’t.”

“Sometimes people choose their vallaslin to honour a god,” he said. “Sometimes people get it because of the attributes associated with the god, or hell, maybe you just like how it looks.”

“I want it to mean something,” she said.

“Some get their parent’s vallaslin to honour them instead,” he suggested. “There’s a lot of reasons. My mother chose Sylaise’s vallaslin because her father had it. My sister chose Mythal’s because of her wisdom.”

Revasha glanced at him. “And you? Dirthamen?”

 _Because everything within me, to the marrows of my bones, spills with devotion and worship_.

“Loyalty to family,” he said.

She blinked. “Oh. I mean, I guess that’s true… Familial stuff is more of Sylaise’s domain though, isn’t it? Or even Mythal. All-Mother and everything.”

“I was more focused on the loyal part of it,” he said and smiled. “What about Andruil? You’re good with a bow, and you’re a good hunter.”

“Maybe.” She rubbed the arm holding her bow. “Mae had that vallaslin. I could get it. Protect the clan like she did.”

“A solid choice,” he said.

“What if I change my mind in the future? What if it doesn’t apply anymore?”

“That’s fine. Who you are now is rarely who you’ll be in the future. But at the end of the day, whether you’re honouring a god or not, the vallaslin stands for the Dalish. That it stands for our pride and endurance. Meanings can change over time.”

Solas’ stare prickled at the back of his neck.

The hunting horn sounded. Revasha took a deep breath.

“Ready?” he asked.

Revasha nodded and he walked her to the starting point where the elders and some of her peers were waiting with a halla.

“Andruil’enaste, da’vherassan,” he said. “Lasa eman solas.”[1]

“Juvegaran ena’sal’inast[2],” she promised and slid on the halla’s back.

He smiled. “Hunt well.”

After the elders blessed her and hung a necklace of beads around her neck, a symbol of Andruil’s blessing, she urged her halla into the forest and disappeared.

“Stay safe,” he murmured and focused instead on recalling the steps for tonight’s dance.

* * *

Lavellan eyed the sun’s position and paced, muttering under his breath. Where was she? It was getting late, and there was still the vallaslin to receive. Most First Hunts didn’t go past early afternoon.

What if she was in trouble? What if she’d gotten too ambitious and found herself in a difficult situation? What if she was hurt?

The hunting horn echoed and some weight lifted from his shoulders. He made his way towards the starting point, expecting to see Revasha with whatever she had hunted, but instead, a few elves were riding into the forest on their halla. The others gathered to see what the fuss was about. Lavellan’s stomach dropped. He found Keeper Hawen and caught his attention.

“Hahren, is something wrong? Where’s Revasha?”

Keepe Hawen looked back into the forest with a frown. “I’m not certain, I only just arrived. But if the horn sounded then she _should_ be back.”

“Why are the others riding out?”

The others murmured amongst themselves.

“Is she in trouble?”

“The others rode out in such a hurry.”

His heart raced and he looked around frantically for the Halla Keeper, stumbled across Solas who must have come to see what was going on. His gaze locked with Lavellan’s panicked one.

“Is everything alright?” Solas asked.

“I don’t know. Are there any spare halla? Where’s Ithiren?”

“I passed the halla enclosure. It was empty save for the injured ones and Hanal’ghilan.”

They’d taken _most_ of the halla? That couldn’t be a good sign.

“They’re back!” someone cried. Holy shit, Lavellan’s heart couldn’t take this. He whipped his head so fast he feared his neck would snap and rushed to scene, Solas following at a calmer pace.

A crowd had formed and was blocking his vision, though he heard the drag of something heavy, the trot of halla hooves, exclamations and murmurs. _Oh gods, please be alright,_ echoed like a mantra in his head. The others noted his arrival and stepped aside.

He stopped at the sight, eyes wide, breath hitching.

Revasha slid off her halla with a triumphant grin, and behind her being dragged by the other halla, was a dead _bear_.

Her eyes sparked, grin widening, and she sprinted for him with an excited shriek. He opened his arms and she jumped into them.

“You’re absolutely mad!” he exclaimed as he spun them with a disbelieving laugh. “A _bear_? I’m so proud, holy shit—" He put her down and inspected her. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she laughed.

“I’m going to get a heart attack.”

“Sit down then, old man.”

“I think I’ll do that.” He felt for a nearby surface. “I’m going to sit down. Holy sh—”

* * *

Lavellan had calmed significantly afterwards. A few Inquisition members who knew Revasha arrived by late afternoon to attend the bonfire and feast, while Lavellan lingered near the aravel that Revasha and Keeper Hawen had disappeared into for her vallaslin. He turned and retreated into the forest and practiced the steps for tonight’s dance.

It was late afternoon by the time Revasha finished with her vallaslin.

He expected to see Andruil’s stylised bow inked upon her face.

Instead, the ink branched over her forehead, around her eyes. A leafless tree.

Well, that was unexpected.

“Mythal,” he said, surprised. “I thought you said Andruil.”

She rubbed her arm, skin still red and irritated around the ink.

“I thought so too,” she said, “but then I thought about what you said. About attributes. Andruil is the huntress, but Mythal watches over everyone. She’s a good leader and I… I want to be that. I don’t just want to hunt and shoot things.” She smiled. “You showed me that more work goes into leading than I’d expected. It’s kind of hard. And a lot.”

“It is, and like I said: it’s something you’ll learn as you do it. Though it never hurts to ask for help every now and again.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you want to be Warleader so soon? Olafin said he’s more than willing to be Warleader for the time it takes for you or one of your peers to mature.”

“I’m sure,” she said. “Besides, I can always ask the older hunters for advice.”

He smiled. “Good. It’s good to ask for help. Did it hurt?”

Lavellan expected her to bristle and deny it but she shrugged instead. “When it got near the eyes. Did yours hurt?”

“I think so,” he said. “Noses don’t like being stabbed, apparently.” Revasha rubbed the bit of vallaslin over her nose and wrinkled it in agreement. He reached into the pocket of his coat. “Now that you’ve gotten your vallaslin, it’s time for your present!”

Her eyes sparked. “You got me a gift?”

“Made,” he said, although he hadn’t realised that her birthday was coming when he’d made the carving, so it was serendipitous. He presented her the tiger carving wrapped in cloth, fastened by colourful strings each representing a god.

She unwrapped the cloth and Lavellan waited, tense. Revasha’s eyes widened.

“Whoa,” she murmured, running careful fingers over it, and grinned. “So it was from you. All your friends had them. I thought it was an Inquisition thing and was wondering where yours was.” She held it tight, eyes softening. “Thank you, hahren. Maybe I’ll tie it to my quiver like Sera does.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said and smiled, aglow with happiness.

“Something to remember you by at least for when you leave.”

Lavellan blinked at the answer. She shuffled her feet, rubbing her arm again.

“I hope it wasn’t weird that I wanted you to be my guardian for the dance,” she said. “I just… Yeah. Thanks.”

“I was honoured you chose me, da’vherassan,” he said. “Now go, you need to prepare for tonight’s bonfire. So do I.”

Revasha smiled to herself as she turned and left to get ready. Lavellan glanced up at the purple, twilit sky. Time for him to prepare too.

The sound of wooden wolves behind him.

“You have reared a successor.”

“You have a terrible habit of eavesdropping.” Lavellan turned and faced Solas who had rolls of paper tucked under his arm.

“I did not mean to,” said Solas. “I was just passing by.”

Lavellan’s gaze fell on the bruise on Solas’ cheek. Why hadn’t he healed it?

“Successor?” asked Lavellan, looking away. “What exactly am I passing on?”

“The future.”

He frowned and looked back at Solas.

“Your future,” Solas murmured.

“ _My_ future?”

“The bright future you strive for. You are training her to lead as you do. Perhaps it was unintentional on your end, but you are preparing her to be a protector of that future, or someone who can carry your dream, if she wishes.” He surveyed his surroundings, watching everyone preparing for tonight. “This is how you all remain immortal.”

Lavellan paused at the tone in his voice. He couldn’t place what it was. Something vulnerable.

Solas turned. “In any case, I do not wish to keep you from your preparations. I will see you tonight.”

He walked away. Lavellan watched him go.

* * *

Keeper Hawen placed upon Lavellan’s head a headdress made of leaves and ironbark carved to look like halla horns, strings of red beads draped across them. A red collar of braided cloth and dangling beads rested on Lavellan’s shoulders, a woven skirt of red and gold halla wool reaching to his knees. His chest, stomach, and arms had been painted with red designs. Lots of red. It was Clan Venalin’s signature colour, after all.

Keeper Hawen placed the wooden bangles around Lavellan’s wrists and ankles and stepped back with a smile.

Lavellan fiddled with the bangles, the knocking wood echoing in the aravel. How long had it been since he had dressed in Dalish garb? Did he ever flaunt his culture and traditions? Or did he quietly assimilate into what the others wished for him to be? For all his talk of encouraging Dalish pride, he’d been remiss with himself.

“Da’len?” asked Keeper Hawen. “Is everything alright?”

“I just… I’ve been disconnected from my culture,” he said. “It’s hard. I’m called the herald of a prophet I never even believed in, the saviour from a faith not my own. From a faith with a history of persecuting our people. I don’t know who I am at this point.” He rubbed his eyes. “The clan was right to be wary of me. I may as well be Dalish in nothing but appearance.”

He placed his hands on Lavellan’s shoulders as if grounding him. “You’ve been entrusted with a difficult role. I see now the responsibility upon your shoulders, as if you are the Keeper of the entire world. Others watch for your misstep. You have become a representative of all Dalish, of all elves, so you must act a certain way to keep us safe.”

Lavellan pursed his lips. Even so, he should have been more adamant. They were already being erased enough. He shouldn’t make it easier for future historians to find a way to remove his heritage from the narrative.

“But it warms my heart to see that you still try to reconnect with us,” said Keeper Hawen. “You care for us, you have not forgotten us, and you have not disavowed us. You are Dalish. Know that in your heart.” He pressed his forehead against Lavellan’s. “We are ever grateful for your efforts.”

“Thank you, hahren,” he whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“If it really troubles you and you would like to feel as if you’re reclaiming yourself, we could give you items to remember the Dalish by when you leave.”

Lavellan smiled. “I’d like that.”

_But are you even Dalish? Are you even a part of this world?_

_Or maybe you belong nowhere._

_You should have stayed dead._

The drumbeats began outside and startled Lavellan away from those thoughts. Keeper Hawen fixed his robes and grabbed his staff.

“Shall we?” he asked and Lavellan nodded, mouth dry.

Together, they stepped out, the ground cool beneath Lavellan’s feet, and approached the large, roaring bonfire where the clan had gathered along with a few members of the Inquisition. The bonfire had been enchanted to contain the fire within it. Last thing they wanted was to accidentally set the forest ablaze.

Revasha was on the other side of the bonfire but Lavellan wouldn’t be able to see her yet. Not until the dance.

Keeper Hawen recited an elven verse while Lavellan took up his position at one end of the bonfire, shaking off the remnants of his disturbing thoughts. Forget those for now. Tonight was a night for celebration.

Once Keeper Hawen finished, the drumbeats started again, embellished with the occasional bone shakers.

He pushed aside the self-consciousness brought about by the watchful eyes glinting from the firelight and began the dance.

Lavellan danced his way around half of the bonfire, bangles chiming during specific movements to add to the percussion. He soon encountered Revasha who was waiting at the other end, wearing the white woven halla robes and sash patterned with Clan Venalin’s signature colours and design — the traditional garb for one coming of age. She began her dance, mirrored his movements, her own bangles joining the chime of his.

The tempo kicked up and Lavellan led the way across the other half of the bonfire, found a few of his friends among the crowd.

Upon returning to where he’d started, the tempo accelerated again and the dance turned sprightly, their feet kicking, arms weaving. Revasha stopped following and mirroring and instead danced a series of steps to complement his.

The entire dance was symbolic. The guardian would first lead the way and show the child how to move around Elgar’nan’s fire of life, then the child would eventually find their own rhythm and dance.

Revasha grinned as the tempo kicked up for the last time and they shared a laugh as they both spun around one another, their bangles chiming and the others cheering.

As his dance neared its end, he removed his headdress and bestowed it upon Revasha while he recited the traditional Elvish verse that the guardian gave to the child.

He offered her a soft smile after. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “And I know your parents are too.”

She returned his smile with a wobbly one of her own and bowed her head. Lavellan stepped back so she could dance back to where she’d started with the headdress now on, and he looked upon her with pride. After the dance, everyone cheered.

The celebration kicked in. A new song began, and people stood and danced around the bonfire, some ducking out for food.

Lavellan looked for his friends and laughed at Bull and Dorian being taught a dance by four elderly women. Cassandra was by the banquet discussing something with another elf. Cole was somewhere wandering as per usual.

Revasha dragged him back into the fray and he danced with her before urging her to go dance with her friends.

A new song started again, joined by vocalisations that Lavellan recognised. A song that the Dalish had sung at the end of their Long Walk. A song of home and celebration.

His eyes fell on Solas still sitting, watching the festivities with an unidentifiable expression, the firelight casting a masquerade of shadows over his face as if making up for his lack of dancing. For a moment, it was as if the heavy shadows were cloaking him, pulling him away, trapping him in his spiralling thoughts.

Lavellan approached Solas and held out a hand. Solas started, eyes wide as he stared up at him.

“Dance with me?” Lavellan asked.

“With me? Are you certain?”

“I’m asking you, aren’t I?”

“I— I do not know the steps.”

“I can teach you,” he said. “This one’s simple, I promise.”

He hesitated, but slowly, he took Lavellan’s hand. Lavellan pulled Solas up and dragged him closer to the fire, the heat of it pressing against their faces.

“Like this,” said Lavellan and showed him the steps. “When your hands pass your thighs, slap them against it lightly. It adds as percussion.”

Solas followed easily and got it right the first few tries, as usual. He shot Lavellan an uncertain look and Lavellan nodded, smiling.

“You taught me a dance from Elvhenan,” said Lavellan. “Let me return the favour and teach you a Dalish dance. The elves sang and danced this when they reached Halamshiral after their Long Walk.”

He guided Solas where he could, though it wasn’t needed. Soon, they danced around one another, occasionally meeting up to clap their hands as the tempo once again picked up, all spry steps and snappy yet fluid movements. A soft smile replaced Solas’ tentative expression.

Their eyes met and Lavellan couldn’t look away again, caught in the colours of Solas’ eyes turned impossible by the reflection of the fire and dark shadows and tumult of emotions within it.

“Good!” Lavellan praised. “We’re going to swap partners soon.”

His face pulled in mild panic. “Wait, I do not think—”

“Don’t think; move!” Lavellan urged and guided Solas to another partner while he found another.

Lavellan grinned as he danced from partner to partner, their laughing, joyful faces reflecting the face of home. His heart warmed. As warm as the bonfire.

He looked for Solas and found him dancing with a sprightly old woman. Solas was laughing softly.

Lavellan’s heart surpassed the warmth of the bonfire.

Another swap of partners. Revasha again. She grinned up at him.

“Tired yet, hahren?”

“I’m not that old, da’vherassan. I can outdance you.”

“Are you sure? I can hear your bones creaking.”

He let out an offended gasp, but they both laughed. They danced around one another, his bangles and beads clicking, before one final partner swap came.

Revasha smiled mischievously and shoved him.

Lavellan stumbled. “Vasha—!”

He collided against Solas who caught him.

Solas chuckled by his ear. “Weary on your feet, lethallin?”

“Very funny.” Lavellan turned to face him, grinning stupidly, but he couldn’t find it in him to suppress it. The warmth swelled within his chest. The awkwardness had gone from Solas’ movements, and he was well and truly flowing with the music now. “Any interesting dance partners?”

“There was an excitable little boy who made me feel quite old and unable to keep up,” he said, lips twitching, “and a grandmother who also made me feel quite old and unable to keep up.”

“Never underestimate Dalish grandmothers.”

“So I am learning,” he laughed, orange firelight washing over him, the haunted shadows within his eyes fading. The flickering lights seemed more playful than melancholy now.

The dance ended far too soon. Lavellan found himself somewhat out of breath, too warm from being near the fire, but he was still smiling.

“Have you eaten?” asked Solas.

“I don’t think so.”

“Come, you must have expended a lot of your energy dancing for almost half the night like that.” Their hands were clasped. Lavellan wasn’t sure how that had happened but Solas held on as if seeking a lifeline and anchor, so Lavellan didn’t comment on it.

“Has it really been that long?” Lavellan asked instead, letting Solas pull him to the banquet table.

“Time flies when you are enjoying yourself.”

Lavellan’s eyes fell on the tray of honeyed bread buns shaped into various animals, and gasped. When was the last time he’d had those? Six years ago? He picked up the one shaped like a wolf and laughed, waving the bread at Solas.

“By the Bread Wolf!” he cried.

Solas’ expression turned unimpressed.

Ithiren walked past and Lavellan brandished the bread at his face menacingly

“Bread Wolf take you!” said Lavellan.

Ithiren laughed and groaned at the same time. “Da’len, the children always make that joke.”

“He _is_ a child,” grumbled Solas while Ithiren walked away, shaking his head and chuckling. “Eat your bread.”

Lavellan bit into it and tore the head off. Solas pressed his lips into a disturbed line.

“Would you like some?” Lavellan asked and offered the decapitated bread at him, resisted smiling.

“…No, thank you.”

“I see you’re not willing to _rise_ to the challenge.” He shrugged and Solas scowled. Lavellan was sweaty, hadn’t realised. “I’m going to take a walk and cool off.”

“May I walk with you?” asked Solas and Lavellan glanced at him. He had a grave and serious look about him again. “I would like to talk to you about something.”

Lavellan eyed him for a moment, something twisting in his stomach, and nodded.

Solas’ gaze fell on their still joined hands as if only just realising, before he let go. Lavellan’s hand felt cold.

They walked into the forest, leaving the cheers of the celebration behind until it faded, and they were left coated in the night-time silence and light from the gibbous moon. Lavellan finished his bread. Still, Solas stayed quiet and Lavellan let him sort out his thoughts.

Lavellan picked flowers along the way, tucking them in hidden places such as the hollow of the trees or within a bush. Little surprises for whomever found them.

“I wished to apologise.”

They stopped walking. Lavellan stared at Solas who couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You were right. I did not go about expressing my concerns commendably. I did not present the opportunity for a constructive discussion, and I hurt you, and I have been cruel. And I am not proud of it.” His eyes glimmered with sorrow and sincerity. “I am sorry.”

Lavellan’s shoulders fell, pressed under something heavy.

“And how long will your apology last?” Lavellan asked. “How long until we fall into another argument, until we yell and hurt each other again? How _long_ will this sorry last?”

Solas cast his gaze down once more, but he didn’t answer.

“I can’t keep doing this,” said Lavellan, his tone turning imploring. “I can’t keep doing this on and off arguing with you. I’m tired of this back and forth thing that will be fine for the first few weeks before something new makes us explode. I know everyone’s come to expect that of us but I don’t… I don’t want that as our normal. This is just _tiring_.”

Solas still didn’t answer, but his face twisted.

“Talk to me, Solas. Please.”

Solas let out a shaky exhale and met Lavellan’s gaze, the purple burst in his eyes vivid under the moonlight. “I am sorry, truly, for having burdened and exhausted you this much. If our relationship is truly putting a strain on you, then perhaps it’s for the best if we maintain a professional distance.”

Lavellan stared at him, his face falling.

“What, that’s it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Not even worth trying? So I never meant a damn after all?”

“No! That is not— You—” He made a frustrated sound, but it wasn’t directed at Lavellan. “I do not wish to hurt you any more than I already have.”

“So you’d rather cut it off than go through the trouble of trying? I don’t get a say in this? It’s for _my_ own good is it?” Solas was doing it again. _It’ll be kinder in the long run,_ Solas had said. _I would not have you see what I become._ Fucker never even asked about what Lavellan wanted then.

Solas’ face pulled further and the atmosphere was beginning to sour. He opened his mouth, but he paused. He closed it. “Will you— give me a moment.”

Lavellan frowned as Solas closed his eyes and turned away, his expression smoothing. It was quiet for a few uncomfortable seconds.

“Very well,” Solas said, voice calmer as he opened his eyes and faced Lavellan again. “I merely meant that one should endeavour to distance themselves from a person causing them harm. When you are gardening, you uproot the weeds. Why is that displeasing?”

“Because you’re not a weed?” Lavellan rubbed an irritated hand down his face. “Because I think, when we’re not blowing our tops off at one another, that we actually get along well. Because I enjoy your company when we aren’t yelling. Because I miss you when we stop talking after a fight.” He looked away. “Because I want you in my life,” he finished softly.

The admission pulled a faint, shuddering breath from Solas, and when Lavellan looked, something vulnerable flickered in Solas’ eyes. Sorrowful yet alight with an emotion that Lavellan didn’t want to name just yet.

“You asked me to think of a better way of doing this,” said Solas. “This is my proposed solution, but you seem to think it’s a lack of one.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “This is just… running. When I said there had to be a better way, I meant a better way of interacting. This ‘solution’ feels like you’re saying that it’s not even worth trying, it’s not worth putting the effort in.” He looked back at Solas. “That _I’m_ not worth trying for.”

Solas stood, stunned. “That was not what I meant.”

“Well that’s what it sounded like. You’re deciding what’s supposedly good for me without consulting me.” He hugged himself. “I don’t want a _professional_ distance. I don’t want you pulling away or cutting off ties or walking away and pretending like it’s not going to gut you as much as it’d gut me.”

Lavellan pressed his lips tight before something unwanted came out and turned his head away, brows scrunching.

“If you truly want to put distance in our friendship,” said Lavellan, pushing the words through the tangle in his chest, “I can’t stop you. I won’t. I’ll respect your wishes.” He searched Solas’ eyes. “But _is_ that what you want?”

“No,” Solas whispered.

“Then what _do_ you want?” Lavellan chanced a step closer, almost grabbed Solas to shake him but resisted. Solas’ expression twisted as if every second of this was torture, and Lavellan was certain it was.

“What I want—” He looked into Lavellan’s eyes. “I want…” He hung his head and let out a soft breath. “I want to be allowed to want. Without being bound to the world.”

“Then forget the world!” Lavellan grabbed his shoulders then, curbed the hysteria from his tone. “Just this moment, forget the world, forget the burdens, forget the pull of hands and pleas from ghosts. What do _you_ want?”

Solas said nothing. Lavellan stopping himself from gripping his shoulders tighter.

“I…” Solas started. Paused.

Another span of uncomfortable quiet.

Then, Solas raised his head, eyes earnest and alive with a roar of emotions. “I want you in my life, too.”

Lavellan let out a punched breath, eyes widening.

“Well,” Lavellan croaked and attempted a smile. “That’s a start.”

A cool nightly breeze wove between the trees. The warmth that Lavellan had earned from the flames and dancing was waning with every second.

“Mahanon, I—” Solas’ conflicted expression returned, and his gaze fixed on a distant point as if that could impart him with courage. “I…”

Lavellan frowned, waited, but the more Solas deliberated it, the more his conflict intensified.

“I’m—” Solas sighed in irritation and he turned his head away. The conflicted expression melted, replaced by defeat, and his shoulders slumped. “I find myself more involved with the Dalish than I have ever been,” was what he said. “It is an opportunity I was never presented with, to get to know a clan as intimately as Clan Venalin has allowed.”

No, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, Lavellan could tell. But what else could he have—

_I’m Fen’Harel._

Lavellan’s breath caught. Oh…

“I suspect you weren’t presented with many opportunities to get to know the Dalish this much,” said Lavellan, going with it. His hand fell from Solas’ shoulders. _He tried, he tried—_ “How are you finding us now?”

“I have always enjoyed your company,” said Solas.

“Not me. The rest of Clan Venalin, at the very least.”

He shook his head. “I am not singling you out. Not in the way that you think. I merely meant that because I’ve enjoyed your company, I thought that perhaps I should give the Dalish another chance. That perhaps there are those whose company I will enjoy as well.”

Lavellan’s heart leapt to his throat. He swallowed it back down. “And?”

“And…” Solas looked away. “Perhaps a few are terrible, and a few are not, because clans are of varying sizes, and there is a diversity of people within it.” A pained light danced in his eyes. “I apologise for the hurtful things I said when we first met. The Dalish are not shadows. They have become something else while I was not looking, and now I am confronted by it. All I saw was what they could be, what they once have been,” he admitted. “They are almost entirely different from the ancient elves. That remains a frightening thought.”

Perhaps he couldn’t tell the truth about Fen’Harel, but he wanted to at least attempt in other areas. Maybe he was doing what Lavellan was: dropping hints in the hopes somebody would piece it together so they could avoid the admission.

“Why?” Lavellan asked gently. Although he knew why.

“It…” He hesitated, but he pushed through even though he looked as if he’d swallowed a whole brick of tea. “It confirms that I am alone.”

Lavellan raised his hand, faltered, before he shook aside his hesitation and cupped the back of Solas neck and pressed their foreheads together. His other hand settled over Solas’ heart, thumb resting at the dip of Solas’ collarbones, feeling the light flutter of Solas’ pulse beneath it. The bangles slid down Lavellan’s arm.

“I know it’s not the same,” Lavellan murmured, “and I know I can never understand, but we’re here. Maybe we’re not the exact same as what you’re searching for, but we will never let you be alone. You have a place here. And I know you had your reservations but thank you for trying to befriend the others. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Solas’ hand gripped the one Lavellan had rested above his heart. “You do not understand,” he said. “ _That_ is the problem.”

“That I don’t understand?”

“That you have given me a place. I cannot— I am not—” He took in another shaky breath. “Ir abelas, Mahanon. I have not made this any easier on you.”

“Neither have I,” he snorted. “But I meant it, Solas. I want you in my life. You widen my horizons. You challenge and help me grow. You look after me when I can’t. And I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for it before so… thank you.”

“You say all this even after I’ve hurt you.”

Lavellan’s gaze softened. “I have lines. I won’t let you keep hurting me if you keep doing it.”

“I do not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” he said. “And I— I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t listening to you or the others. I’ll… try.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

Lavellan smiled back.

Solas tightened his grip around Lavellan’s hand and he closed his eyes.

“I’ve dwelt within the world of dreams where colour dulled to endless grey,” he said. “When I awoke, I came to find the waking world a lifeless sheen, and yet you came along and tracked your touch, bled dye upon the grey. It runs without restraint and yet it paints a vivid, living piece that neither man nor god could make.”

Did he just— spit verse at him? Lavellan’s cheeks and ears flushed, heartbeat pacing. Traitors. “That’s very poetic of you,” he said. Quite literally too. Some things never change.

“It seems you inspire the poet within me, dreadful as it is.”

Was that a fucking pun?

 _Don’t laugh, oh Creators_ —

Lavellan forced himself to quiet and focus on his response, running the syllables in his head.

“You’ll find that I must disagree,” Lavellan said. “Your words have left me very charmed.” Not his best attempt but he was no bard.

Solas opened his eyes in surprise and his pulse quickened beneath Lavellan’s hand. Lavellan suppressed a smile.

“Quicksilver tongue you seem to have,” said Solas.

“How the hell do you do that so quick?” he grumbled and Solas chuckled as they slowly pulled away and raised their heads. “Have you considered being a bard?”

“You spoke in meter that time,” he noted. “And no. I’ve little skill in such a field.”

Lavellan recalled when Solas had disguised himself as a bard to meet up with Charter in a _tea house_. Lavellan hadn’t known whether to laugh or scream when he’d heard about it.

“How well can you do an Orlesian accent?” asked Lavellan.

“ _Not very well, I’m afraid,_ ” he said, mimicking said accent. Lavellan blinked.

“Hey, that wasn’t half bad,” he said.

“ _Perhaps I should endeavour to do it more often_.”

“Okay, no, stop,” he laughed, and his hand dropped from Solas’ chest, ignored how cold it felt without him.

“ _If I ever find myself in need of employment, I must polish my skills to be a passable Orlesian bard._ ”

“That turned _Nevarran_!” His laughter doubled and Solas looked on, completely austere, but a smile threatened the corner of his lips and his eyes shimmered with mischief.

“ _Mock me not, Inquisitor Lavellan._ ”

“Terrible!”

Solas finally cracked and he smiled.

“Right, we’ll cross Orlesian bard off the list,” said Lavellan, laughter dwindling.

“Perhaps that is for the best,” agreed Solas, still smiling. They began the walk back, a fresh wash of buoyant emotions pressing against the spaces of Lavellan’s ribs.

“So what now?” asked Lavellan. “Can we work at this?”

“Nothing is beyond hope,” said Solas.

Lavellan raised a brow. “Solas, I believe that almost sounded optimistic! Am I rubbing off on you?”

“Irritatingly so,” he grumbled but he smiled when Lavellan laughed again. “We may end up arguing once more.”

“Probably,” said Lavellan. “But we can work on making them constructive and… I don’t know, more not ouch?”

“Healthier?” suggested Solas.

“That.” Lavellan mussed his hair, hope and joy bubbling in his chest. “Our arguments don’t have to devolve into a screaming match. That’s… exhausting. And all of that silent treatment the next few days and awkwardness just hurts even more.”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the stars. “I sometimes come to expect a humorous or insightful remark from you during the periods after a fight, and when it doesn’t arrive, I am reminded that we are not on good terms.”

“Me too,” he admitted and stopped walking, Solas following suit. Lavellan offered his hand. “A promise to make this work?”

Solas stared at it, before he reached out and threaded their fingers together instead of clasping it in a handshake. Lavellan swore his heart stopped and sprinted at the same time.

“A promise,” said Solas.

It was Lavellan’s left hand. Apparently being flustered counted as distress because the Anchor flared and he yelped, hurriedly pulling it away and tucking it under his arm. He laughed nervously at Solas.

“It, uh, it does that.”

“You say the mark flares when you are in distress.” He was frowning again and Lavellan waved him off.

“No, no. Well, yes. But also when I get— You know what, never mind. It’s fine. Ignore it.”

Solas stared at the hand shimmering like a broken star tucked in the crook of Lavellan’s arm and gods, he didn’t have a top to hide it under and like hell he was reaching down to shove it under his skirt.

 _Behave_ , Lavellan hissed at it and consciously worked on tugging at the Veil. He relaxed when the flickering stopped.

“If not distress, what then?” asked Solas.

Lavellan sighed. “Surprise,” he muttered. That was a synonym of flustered, right?

Another breeze blew past and Lavellan shivered involuntarily. Solas took his trademark woollen coat off and draped it over Lavellan’s shoulders, securing it around him. Lavellan stared, fighting back a giddy smile.

“We should get you back to the fire to keep you warm. In the meantime, my coat is better than body paint and beads in warding off the cold.”

Lavellan clutched the coat tighter around him. Warm. Smelled like smoke and Solas.

“Your clothes will smell like smoke for a while,” said Lavellan.

“I have a spell for that,” said Solas as they walked again.

He eyed him. “Where’d you learn it from?”

Solas opened his mouth to answer, but he paused, then frowned. “I do not recall. It must have been a while back.”

Lavellan’s mind whirred. _He_ was the one who had taught it to Solas, but Solas didn’t seem to be lying. Something really was interfering with both their memories.

 _“ Syn ma eolasas?”_[3] he asked the Well, but only the whispers answered him.

When they returned to the Dalish encampment, he caught Bull and Dorian’s look and scowled when Dorian held out a waiting palm and Bull slapped a few coins into it with a grunt.

Solas didn’t ask for his coat back. Lavellan didn’t take it off.

Neither made mention of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning: chonky author's note ahead.
> 
> Before you go, I'd like to just say thank you for reading this fic. 2020's been a hectic and distressing year for a great number of us, myself included, and writing this fic was initially a coping mechanism for me and it was never meant to be shared. But deciding to share it was one of the best decisions I've ever made in my life. 
> 
> I've met so many kind people and made new friends, and hearing from all of you or just writing this fic has made me so genuinely happy. I can't find the words for how grateful I am which is ironic because writers are apparently supposed to know how to make words make sense or something?? Pff. But yeah, anyway, thanks a bunch. I hope reading this fic has given you even just a quarter of the joy I get when I write this and interact with you all. Thank you to those who've made art for this fic, thank you to the analysts, the theorists, the commenters, and you, the reader.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Happy birthday to my grumpy little tiger, Vasha.
> 
> And my goodness, is that? Communication?? Finally! Something happy for the holiday season.
> 
> (Pfff, the-- The Bread-- The Bread Wolf _rises_. hhehehhehehe)
> 
> Also, here's the sappy poem Solas made up on the spot (in actual poem form, this took me hours i can't believe solas did it on the spot, i hate that man):
> 
> I’ve dwelt within the world of dreams  
> where colour dulled to endless grey.  
> When I awoke, I came to find  
> the waking world a lifeless sheen  
> and yet you came along and tracked  
> your touch, bled dye upon the grey.  
> It runs without restraint and yet  
> it paints a vivid, living piece  
> that neither man nor god could make.
> 
> And so, I bid you all a happy holidays! Take care <3 I'll see you on the 7th of Jan!
> 
> * * *
> 
> #### Translation
> 
> [1]  
>  **Andruil'enaste, da'vherassan:** Andruil’s blessing, little tiger  
>  **Lasa eman solas:** Make us proud (lit. grant us pride)[⇧]  
> [2] **Juvegaran ena'sal'inast:** (I) will be victorious[⇧]  
> [3] **Syn ma eolasas?:** Do you know?[⇧]


	51. Memoirs of blood and bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back! Taking a break for a week was the Worst, I'll never do it again if I can help it. 
> 
> The first chapter of the new year. Let's gooo! (and look we've broken the 300k word mark! yall overall i've written over 400k words during 2020 that's wild)

_chasing dreams of snow—_

* * *

“When are you leaving?” asked Revasha, watching the Inquisition wagons moseying past, packed up and ready.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “So it’s official? You’re being appointed Warleader?”

“In two weeks. Olafin’s going to brief me on how it all works and what my duties will be. It helps that I already know some things from mae and you.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be here for the ceremony,” he said. “I can’t be gone too long from Skyhold, what with all the decisions and paperwork.” He sighed, already feeling the headache coming along, but he shook his head and smiled. “But I’ve still got all of today. I can talk you through a few more things. Maybe collaborate with Olafin while we’re at it.”

“I’d like that,” she said and smiled back, the vallaslin on her face shifting. Still a little red around the lines.

They passed Solas and a few of the elders in discussion as Solas handed them the transcribed rubbings from Din’an Hanin. Their eyes met and Solas smiled, nodding in greeting. Lavellan returned it.

Revasha eyed him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said airily. “Just wondering.”

“About?”

“If he’s your lethallin or if he’s your _lethallin_ , if you catch my meaning,” she said and grinned.

“I do not,” he replied tartly.

“Yes, you do,” she snorted and adopted a high-pitched voice, placed the back of her hand against her forehead, and swooned. “I wear his coat because he’s my beloved _lethallin_ , I share meaningful looks with him over great distances because he’s my _lethallin_. Oh lethallin, oh lethallin, come embrace me, _lethallin_!” 

Lavellan jabbed his elbow into her side. “I preferred it when you were glaring at me. At least you weren’t saying anything.”

She made kissy noises. “Come hold me in your arms, I am lonely, _lethallin_ ,” she bemoaned, then cackled. “You wore his coat the whole night, hahren.”

“I was cold, he was being nice.”

They arrived at the Inquisition camp. Most of the tents were gone and packed away, while the rest of his companions were in the middle of packing their personal belongings. 

Dorian looked up from trying to shove something into his pack, having caught the tail of Lavellan and Revasha’s conversation.

“Oh, what’s this?” Dorian asked. “Are we teasing him about wearing Solas’ coat?”

“We’re also teasing him about them calling each other _lethallin_ ,” she scoffed.

“You two call each other that a lot,” said Bull, resting his arm on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian didn’t shrug it off. “What’s it actually mean?”

“Means _dearest friend_ ,” mocked Revasha. “Clan mate. Blood kin. It’s for _very good friends_.”

“Ah yes,” laughed Dorian. “Jolly good friends! The absolute best.”

“Mmh,” agreed Bull. “Just staring at your best friend’s bare chest, yeah. What does it mean when best friends fuck off into the forest and one of them is half-naked, then comes back with the best friend’s clothes?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not it,” muttered Lavellan. “It was cold, he had a coat. As simple as that.”

“Oh?” asked Dorian. “And what were we thinking, pray tell?”

“Why are you picking on me? Go annoy Solas.”

“I did. Last night. But you’re much more fun to tease! All Solas said was, ‘It is none of your business,’” he said, mimicking Solas’ voice and put-upon expression, then huffed. “That’s it.”

Cole walked past, said, “Golden and glowing, promises in a graveyard but he puts everything to rest. I want to try.”

Lavellan stared at Cole.

“I’m glad,” said Cole with a soft smile, and off he went on his merry way.

“What?” asked Bull.

“None of your business!” Lavellan chirped.

* * *

Lavellan secured the saddle on his horse, heart heavy. He cast the forest around him another glance, memorised the rain of sunlight through the canopies, the staunch trees and mighty branches, and the vibrant colours that spring had brought forth. He didn’t want to leave.

“You alright, Glowy?” asked Varric.

The others looked up at his question and stared at Lavellan with varying levels of worry.

“I’m fine,” slipped out again before he could stop it but Varric shot him an unconvinced look and Lavellan sighed. “I like this place. I don’t want to leave.”

Varric clapped him on the back. “I get you,” he said. “Maybe when all this shit’s finished, you can come back.”

“I hope it does finish,” he mumbled.

“Okay, maybe not finished, but when it’s slightly less shit. How about that?”

He laughed. “Seems a bit more manageable.”

They returned to their preparations, but Lavellan’s heart wasn’t in it.

Vivienne approached in his periphery. He looked up.

“Darling,” she started, voice soft, “I have… a favour to ask of you.” Her lips pressed into a grim line, something troubled in her eyes. His stomach dropped and he faced her fully. “There is an alchemical formula I must complete but I am missing a critical ingredient. I had arranged to obtain it but the chevaliers working with me were killed in the civil war. I am asking for your help in retrieving it.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“I require the heart of a snowy wyvern.”

“Alright,” he said.

She stared at him and he stared back. Vivienne frowned. “No questions? How strange, considering your nature. I had expected an interrogation from you.”

His lips twitched. “Your face screams, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I’m reading the room.” And he had been expecting this. Duke Bastien had been unable to attend the peace talks due to his health, after all. “Do you know where to find one?”

“It is not very far. It is in the Exalted Plains.” She smiled. “It is not in the Emerald Graves, unfortunately. You may have been able to stay longer that way.”

The unexpected yet thoughtful sentiment took him by surprise. No, he really shouldn’t be surprised. She had her moments, and her own way of showing it.

“Well, it’s still the Dales,” he said and smiled. “Hopefully the Plains have been able to heal somewhat in that time.”

Vivienne nodded. “I appreciate this, my dear.” Her gaze fell on something over his shoulder. “And it seems you have one final goodbye to share.”

He turned and found Revasha and Keeper Hawen walking towards them. Revasha waved.

Lavellan grinned and met them halfway.

“You really thought you were going to up and leave without saying goodbye?” asked Revasha.

Lavellan snorted fondly and ruffled her hair. She swatted his hand away with a grumble.

“I said goodbye yesterday. Extensively. I think I shared at least five goodbyes with most of the clan.”

“That was yesterday,” she huffed.

“Aww, are you going to miss me?”

“Obviously.”

Lavellan grinned and tipped his head in greeting at Keeper Hawen.

He nodded back with a smile and presented Lavellan with a woven rucksack. “For whenever you miss home,” he explained.

Lavellan took it graciously and opened it. The first item inside was a small halla bone amulet. A complicated pattern was carved onto its surface, but Lavellan could immediately discern the rune hidden within the lines.

“It is an amulet we found in one of the elven ruins we have explored in years past,” said Keeper Hawen. “Whenever the wearer suffers an injury, it places a barrier around them. Of course, it cannot compare to a mage casting the barrier.”

“But every second counts in battle,” said Lavellan with a soft breath. “Are— Are you sure you want to part with this? Your clan found it.”

“The clan and the elders have decided that we can happily part with it to express our collective gratitude for all you’ve done for us.” He held his hand out. “May I?”

Lavellan placed the amulet into it and bowed his head so Keeper Hawen could put it on him. The magic within the amulet hummed.

“You’ll also find a few handwoven blankets and scarves,” said Keeper Hawen. “We hear your fortress is high in the mountains. I expect it’s cold.”

“Quite,” laughed Lavellan, before it dwindled into a softer sound. He couldn’t stop smiling. “Thank you.”

Keeper Hawen smiled back, then nudged Revasha. She rubbed her arm.

“I made something,” she mumbled.

His brows raised. “For me?”

She nodded and reached into her pocket. Her hand stayed fisted around the item she was holding and at Keeper Hawen’s encouraging nod, she presented it. It was a hunting charm of braided leather and red and purple crystal beads. Lavellan accepted it, brushed his thumb over it.

“Ram and halla leather,” she explained. “I also asked about Clan Lavellan’s colours and they said purple so… Red and purple beads. For Clan Venalin and Lavellan.”

Lavellan recalled the process of creating the charm and grinned at her. “Da’vherassan, this would have required a lot of patience.”

“That’s my fifth attempt,” she groaned. “It took _so_ long and it kept unravelling.”

“When did you start this?”

“When you left the first time. Keeper Hawen suggested I try making charms to test my patience.”

Lavellan unslung the bow on his back and tied the charm just below the grip. They supposedly helped ground the hunter so that their arrow would hit its mark.

“Thank you, Vasha,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to send me letters. There’ll still be Inquisition presence in the Dales so just approach one of the scouts and ask to send a letter to me. If you need advice, you’re free to ask too. So long as you’re fine with the wait.”

She smiled. “I’m more patient now, didn’t you know?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She kicked his shin and he pulled a face at the pain. “Visit when you can,” she said.

“Only if you don’t kick my shins,” he said and chuckled. He hugged her. “Goodbye Vasha. You’ll do great. Remember to ask for help when you need it.”

Revasha hugged him back. “You too.”

He shared his last goodbyes and finally got on his horse and urged it forward. One final time, he looked over his shoulder. Revasha waved. Lavellan smiled sadly.

During the ride to the Plains, Lavellan fiddled with the bone amulet and hunting charm, already missing home.

* * *

The skies had cleared in the Exalted Plains, no longer curtained in an orange haze, no longer marinating in the stench of despairing soldiers and husked corpses embroiled in a civil war. The rest of their group went on ahead back to Skyhold.

“Doesn’t smell like death and despair anymore,” remarked Varric. He’d tagged along because he wanted to procrastinate further on his paperwork. Solas had come along because he was suspicious of Vivienne, Cole because once again, he hesitated to stray far from Lavellan’s side, and Bull because, “Come on, Mercy, wyverns. _Wyverns_. And this one’s going to be pretty.”

“Lead on, Vivienne,” said Lavellan, and they rode to a section of the Plains that had been previously blocked by boulders, recently cleared by the Inquisition. They passed through a pass, beneath an Elvhen arch, and into a camp that the Inquisition presence here had set up.

Lavellan eyed the halla statue above the pedestal of rock at the centre of the camp. Ghilan’nain.

A woman in white was standing by the base of the pedestal, staring up at the statue, her long hair as bright as her billowing robes. Barefoot. She glowed in the sun as if she were a fresh, undisturbed field of snow, skin so pale that Lavellan was certain he’d see her veins stark against her skin if he got any closer.

She turned her head, looked at him over her shoulder.

Black dripped from her lips.

Lavellan jolted back and his horse whinnied at the abrupt movement. His companions stopped and stared back at him.

He glanced at the pedestal’s base again, but the woman was gone.

“You alright, Mercy?” asked Bull. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I… may have?” he said.

Varric stared. “Hey, listen, the book I’m writing can only have so many genres crammed into it. Am I going to have to start marketing it as horror?”

“She was there, by the pedestal. Didn’t you see her?”

“Mercy, don’t shit with me.”

“I’m not!” He rubbed his face. “Maybe I’m seeing things.”

“Could it have been a demon?” asked Vivienne. “The Veil here has been terribly battered, after all.”

Solas frowned. “What did she look like?”

“Really pale. Long, white hair, white robes.”

They stayed quiet. Solas’ frown deepened further while Bull and Varric shared a look of what-the-fuck. Vivienne cast the area a wary look.

“Two of them left echoes here,” said Cole. “A gift, rewarded for curiosity, from the eldest to the newest. A welcoming.”

Solas directed his frown at the halla statue and Lavellan eyed him.

“Let’s go get this wyvern heart and get the fuck out of here,” said Bull.

They slid off their horses and waited for the draconologists Vivienne had contacted earlier. Lavellan looked back at the statue and at Solas who was still staring up at it with that specific, impassive expression. Solas had different kinds of impassive expressions, varying depending on the emotion he wished to hide, but this was one Lavellan hadn’t seen before.

After the draconologists arrived at camp, Lavellan’s team waded through the Fens in search of the wyvern.

During the search, he happened upon a small shrine to Fen’Harel and he stopped. Who had placed this here? He crouched and eyed the empty basket of offerings.

“A shrine to Fen’Harel,” he mused.

Lavellan considered the empty basket before he stood and searched around.

“Inquisitor?” asked Solas.

There! Lavellan plucked the crystal grace from the small shrub and gathered a few more stray wildflowers as he made his way back, ignoring Solas’ inquiring look. He placed the flowers in the basket.

“The Dalish would shriek in alarm,” said Solas amused, “at the fact that you would make an offering.”

“It’s not an offering. That implies reverence,” said Lavellan. “It’s a… greeting.”

“Are you extending a hand of friendship to the Dread Wolf, lethallin?” 

Lavellan suppressed his smile as he faced Solas. “Maybe.”

“He may bite your hand.”

“I have another one to sock him in the jaw with if he does.”

Solas looked away but not fast enough because Lavellan still caught him smiling.

“Tries to befriend the god of tricks in his pantheon,” Varric noted. “Are you going to make him a flower crown next?”

“That’s not a terrible idea.”

Varric laughed and they continued.

They finally found the snowy wyvern and made quick work of it, ensured it didn’t suffer unnecessarily, and acquired the help of a few Inquisition soldiers in dragging the carcass back to the draconologists. Lavellan left them to it.

His group was to rest and leave tomorrow, but Vivienne was already packing once she received the heart.

“I am ever so grateful, Inquisitor. Truly. I apologise for my swift departure. This project is time sensitive. I will see you back at Skyhold.”

“The Madame Enchanter flees the moment she acquires what she wants,” said Solas, an undercurrent of hostility shifting beneath the polite outer layer.

“Solas,” Lavellan warned.

He held his tongue, at least until Vivienne and her frosty glare had gone, before he scowled at Lavellan.

“What manner of potion does she seek to make with such a rare ingredient?”

“Potion of youth,” said Lavellan and Solas laughed derisively.

“Driven by vanity. I am unsurprised.”

“It’s not for her.” Lavellan took his boots off and placed them beside the fire basin to dry. “Be gentle, Solas. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“Her ambition is not a symptom of malice. She’s not a malicious person.”

“For our sakes, I hope you are correct,” sighed Solas.

For a while, they each did their own thing, although Bull squinted around him every so often, wary after Lavellan had spoken of the ghost.

But it wasn’t a ghost.

She wasn’t…

He looked up and froze.

There she was again. She beckoned and Lavellan stood, alarmed.

“Glowy?” asked Varric, looking up from tinkering with Bianca.

“Come with me,” he bid, already chasing after her. “Quick.”

His companions scurried to catch up with him while Lavellan followed her into an elven ruin. Vergala circled the skies and refused to enter. Well, that seemed promising.

The woman was gone by the time they’d entered, but what stood within replaced any disappointment that may have net.

Inside stood a large statue of an archer, not unlike the ones they’d found scattered throughout the Plains, along with three orbs wreathed with iron and crystal around it. More of the spherical metallic tress he’d encountered in the Vir Dirthara littered the place. Pillars rose from the ground. There was a pedestal with a lever and numerous gates by the sides of the room.

“What… the fuck am I looking at?” asked Bull.

“A puzzle,” said Lavellan, eyes already gleaming as he inspected the mechanisms.

Solas pulled the side lever and opened one of the gates. Lavellan pulled the other lever in the main room experimentally and the archer rotated by ninety degrees, fired an arrow of blue light. He pulled again. The archer turned another ninety degrees, now aiming at one of the orbs. It shot and the orb lit.

He faced his companions and grinned.

“Puzzle time,” he said.

The puzzle ended up being terrible, confusing, and utterly delightful.

“No, no, keep standing— Why did you move?”

Bull threw his hands up. “I thought I was done.”

“Go back and do it again!”

He groaned like an exasperated teenager would at their doting parents.

There was confused screaming, a variety of curses thrown about, and delighted cackling. Mostly from Lavellan.

Once they finished the puzzle, Lavellan whooped. Three orbs of light danced ahead and opened the furthest door.

“Hey, uh, dwarf stuck in a room here?” came Varric’s tiny voice, still in one of the side rooms where they’d closed the gate on him.

“Oh, shit.”

“Did you _forget_ me?” he shrieked.

“What? No!” said Lavellan as he set about freeing Varric.

Their reward, apparently, was a Revenant and a bunch of corpses.

Anyway, it was fine. They were fine. It ended up _fine_.

“Why,” asked Solas, mildly puffed after the battle, “do I still follow you whenever you are gripped by an impulsive choice, knowing full well from experience that it will wind up being a harrowing endeavour?”

“Because you adore my company,” said Lavellan, glancing around the empty crypt they found themselves in.

Solas grumbled. Lavellan smiled.

Bull wandered back outside. They heard the sliding grate of metal, a heavy drop, then silence.

Then, “Uhh, I’m stuck,” said Bull.

Varric laughed.

“Please go help the large child,” said Lavellan. “I’ll just dig around for a bit more.”

“Try not to get stuck too, Glowy.”

Solas and Varric left to help Bull and Lavellan’s lips twitched at the yelling that ensued.

Still… He glanced around. Why did the woman in white lead him here? There was nothing. This made no sense.

“The puzzle outside seemed like a very Dirthamen thing to do,” said Lavellan. “But whatever this place is, it isn’t for him.”

Ghilan’nain had a presence in the Plains too, didn’t she?

“What did you say?” he asked Cole. “A gift from the eldest to the newest?” Cole tilted his head, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his eyes, but said nothing.

Eldest… Dirthamen was the eldest child of Mythal and Elgar’nan. And Ghilan’nain had risen to divinity, married Andruil. She was the newest.

A gift! Dirthamen had gifted this land to Ghilan’nain. Maybe even as a wedding present—

A flash of white.

He turned towards it. Stilled.

The woman in white sat perched on one of the ledges, smiling at him, black drip, drip, dripping from blacker lips.

“Ras’virelan,” she greeted.

I bow my head. “Ma Venuralas.”

> _I raise my head and she sets the scalpel she’s holding in her hand down on the table where an assortment of parts rest, unrecognisable from how methodically separated they are. Her laboratory is bright. It’s always bright, lit by the glaring crystals embedded in the walls and the veins striating the ceiling. No shadows to hide in. A constant spotlight._
> 
> _Yet she is brighter still. Willowy, deceptively delicate-looking, white as freshly fallen snow. White as bleached bone._
> 
> _But her eyes are pools of liquid dark, so dark he cannot see her pupils. So dark that the whites of her eyes are jarring. Her lips are black, though not as dark as her eyes._
> 
> _“I have finished it,” she says with the voice of a gentle bell. “So many materials and samples wasted, so many attempts as it failed. But failure is good. Failure is a step closer to perfection. Do you believe in perfection, Ras’virelan?”_
> 
> _“The notion of perfection differs with each individual.”_
> 
> _She tilts her head, long, white hair high in a bun, but there is always an unhinged, dishevelled look about her. Present in the everlasting glint in her eyes._
> 
> _“You consider perfection subjective?” she asks._
> 
> _“I do. Your perfection goes by a different name to mine.”_
> 
> _“What is the name of your perfection then?”_
> 
> _“Dirthamen,” I say._
> 
> _She blinks in rapid succession, so fast that I only register it as the flutter of snowy lashes._
> 
> _“No hesitance. Utter loyalty.” She circles me, appraising me with unreserved curiosity as though I am another of her specimens. “I don’t understand. Where is it? Where does your loyalty reside? Is it in your heart? Your head? If I take you apart, will I see it in my hand? Alive and beating?”_
> 
> _She smells metallic. Where are the parts on her table from?_
> 
> _No, I can live without knowing._
> 
> _My heart thrums. Her dark eyes stare through me._
> 
> _“All of me is loyalty,” I say._
> 
> _She smiles, eyes squinting. “Do you cling to him because you are devoted? Or because you are a parasite?”_
> 
> _I frown, though it isn’t from irritation. Rather, genuine curiosity — mirrors hers. As if we are two children faced with the same puzzle from different angles._
> 
> _“What makes you say that?”_
> 
> _“Answer me first. Why did you come through for him?”_
> 
> _Why? The answer is simple._
> 
> _“He turns me into art.”_
> 
> _“Art,” she sighs in bliss. “The ascension of self; made and elevated into a transcendent state. But artists err. Surely you know this.”_
> 
> _“So long as he uses me well. And he always does. He knows his tools; he knows what they are best suited for. He knows me.”_
> 
> _She grins. “What a parasitic answer to give.” She turns walks towards the back of her lab. I follow. “There is an intimacy in being made into a body of work. The barest parts of one another connecting. If he misuses the brush, what then?”_
> 
> _“I ruin him.”_
> 
> _“You think you can, little raven?”_
> 
> _“It is not a matter of can or can’t.”_
> 
> _She opens the display and shows me the armour. Black leather, tight-fitting, but when I brush my fingers over it, it feels warm. Alive. It’s more apt calling it skin than leather._
> 
> _“It is warm,” she says. “It will always be. Like an embrace. You will feel as if it were your own skin, but better. It moves with you, breathes with you. Every action you take, every breath, it will feel like the warmest embrace. My creations.”_
> 
> _“A simulation of life.”_
> 
> _“For now.” She lets out a delighted sound, stares up with a subdued smile but a mad spark in her eyes. “But I have made life from life. Now I will make life from death.”_
> 
> _“Necromancy?”_
> 
> _“Reanimation of death? That’s not life. Not truly. What I seek is better.” She smudges blood along her cheek as she cradles her face in her sublime thrill. “A reversal of the natural order.”_

Lavellan jolted back, disoriented, and Cole righted him. His breathing had turned ragged; hadn’t realised. He blinked, took a while to reorient himself and get his bearings.

“What was that?” he whispered, turned to Cole, frantic. “She was _there_ , she was—”

Not. The room was empty.

“They’re supposed to be dreams,” he said, an edge of panic in his tone. “Or at least, not _here_. Not in front of me.”

Cole shook his head. “Like your ears ringing after a loud noise. She’s not here, not anymore. Your memories made your ears ring.”

“So what? I was seeing things?”

“You’re blurring.”

Lavellan rubbed his face with trembling hands. “What?”

Cole fiddled with his sleeves. “We’re what we think we are. I thought I was a ghost, so I was a ghost, until Rhys made me real. I stopped haunting, help the hurt.” He looked at Lavellan. “I know who I am. Do you?”

Lavellan looked away.

“Painfully pulling at pieces. You’re what others see you, but how do you see you? You hear it again, the Fade singing, but you don’t know if you should sing back or if you’re just meant to listen.”

Any responses Lavellan could have made, not that he had any, was cut off by a triumphant yell from Bull. The others must have gotten him out.

“Let’s go,” said Lavellan, hugging himself as he looked around one final time.

They left the cave, managing a smile at Bull’s gripes about being stuck, while Vergala descended back onto his shoulders. He scratched the underside of her beak.

“Are you alright?” he murmured.

She tilted her head, unblinking. She opened her beak.

“Ar elanan[1],” she cawed, her voice a chilling replica of Ghilan’nain’s. Lavellan stopped walking, but his companions continued, unaware he had stopped. “Ar elanan,” she said again. “Ma enaste tarsul na.[2]”

> _The raven shivers in my arms, bleeding from the numerous cuts along her body. I open my mouth—_
> 
> _“Dead,” Ghilan’nain says without looking up from her work. “The heartbeat is fading, the tissue is far too damaged to be recovered, even with healing magic.”_
> 
> _“If I wanted healing magic, I would have come to a healer,” I say._
> 
> _Ghilan’nain pauses. She places the needles and sutures down and faces me. Bloodstained hands again. I’ve always expected for her laboratory to smell of death, but there’s only the sting of too-sterile air. The lights are as glaring as always. I feel almost out of place, shrouded in the dark armour she has given me numerous decades ago._
> 
> _“What do you seek, then?” she asks._
> 
> _I stare at the dying raven and hum. “Something to push the boundaries.”_
> 
> _She smiles. “I have been prohibited from creating life.”_
> 
> _“You’re not creating life,” I say. “Merely… a reversal of the natural order, was it?”_
> 
> _“Faithful companions can be made immortal, tied to their master’s life,” she says and approaches, running scarred and knobby fingers over the raven’s crest. “This creature has no attachment to you, nor you to it. Why would you wish to prolong its life?”_
> 
> _“I’m curious.” I tilt my head, regard the raven’s slowing breaths. “And impressed. This one is fierce. I stumbled across her tearing a bear’s face to shreds, pecking at its eyes. It would be a shame to lose such a creature.”_
> 
> _“You are fond of the damaged,” she muses and takes the raven from me. “You raise them from the ashes, bring out the strength you see within the wreckage. Is that what you wish for this one?”_
> 
> _“Surprise me,” I say and smile. “Are you able to?”_
> 
> _Ghilan’nain cradles the raven. “I can.” She glances up at me. “Consider this my favour to you.”_
> 
> _“For?”_
> 
> _“Being daring.”_
> 
> _Our footsteps echo as we walk down the corridor._
> 
> _“I will need you for the final part,” says Ghilan’nain. “It has been successful, but why stop at just success?”_
> 
> _“Ever the overachiever, ma Venuralas.”_
> 
> _She opens the lone door at the end of the corridor and, pass a line of vats filled with unknown fluids, and enter a smaller room._
> 
> _A raven lies sleeping on the table._
> 
> _“You were right, this one is fierce,” she says. “You would do well to earn its loyalty. If the raven were to rebel against the hand which has nurtured it, the damage can be quite severe.”_
> 
> _“To itself or its master?”_
> 
> _Ghilan’nain eyes me. “That remains to be seen.”_
> 
> _I frown at the answer and glance back at the raven. “So what did you have in mind?” I ask._
> 
> _“What did_ you _have in mind? I have increased its physical and mental attributes, now remains one final box. How will you fill it?”_
> 
> _I gently run my fingers over the raven’s head._
> 
> _“I need smaller wings,” I say and look back at her, meeting her dark eyes. “And a way to return if I am ever broken.”_

Vergala cawed. Lavellan returned to the present with a start and he stared at her.

Then hugged her. She squawked in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I made you— I’m sorry.” He had seen her only as a tool, in the beginning. Something useful. Whatever Ghilan’nain had done to her was because of his curiosity and because he had seen something useful. Was that how he had been with the El’amelan? Had that been the kind of man he was?

Vergala nudged her head against him.

Lavellan held her close as he walked back, sullen.

_A way to return if I am ever broken._

He frowned.

Dusk was fast approaching once they returned to camp, and Lavellan didn’t feel up to spending time in an area that reminded him of Ghilan’nain for now.

“I’ll go get kindling,” he said.

“Would you like company?” asked Solas.

Lavellan opened his mouth to decline but paused.

“Sure,” he said instead.

“We’ll get food ready,” said Varric. Lavellan nodded and off he and Solas went. Vergala took off and patrolled the skies while they made their way towards the heavily wooded areas of the Plains. For a while, they enjoyed the easy quiet, the give of earth and grass beneath their feet, the dappled dance of dusk light over their eyes.

“It occurs to me that you’ve never spoken of your father before,” said Solas. Perhaps by way of conversation. “Is there a reason?” His tone was gently probing, a respectful curiosity. It was a question free to be left alone.

“No reason beyond me not knowing him very well,” said Lavellan, picking up a branch and snapping it over his knee. “Or never getting the chance to. He died when I was four. I barely recall him.”

“Not even stories about him?”

“He was the First from another clan. He and mae had their respective duties to their own clans so they couldn’t be together as they wished.”

“Both your parents are mages then,” said Solas, mildly surprised. “As is your sister.”

Lavellan laughed. “The magic skipped me. It has been known to happen though.”

They collected fallen branches, peppering the ensuing quiet with the occasional snapping of larger branches.

“I wonder what you would have been like as a mage,” mused Solas, breaking a sizeable branch with his bare hands. Show-off.

Him as a mage, though. He’d wondered too.

“I’d make for a terrible mage,” said Lavellan.

“Would you?” asked Solas, tucked the kindling he’d gathered into his arms, and stared at Lavellan who ignored him in favour of trying to break a stubborn branch with his foot. “You have the qualities of an excellent mage.”

“Oh?”

“You are meticulous, keen, with ample curiosity and steadfast willpower. Your indomitable focus is lethal.”

Lavellan fought the stubborn branch, pulse flickering. “Indomitable,” he repeated.

Solas’ footsteps crunched. Another snap of wood. “You sound as if you disagree. You should see yourself when you hunt.” There was a touch of awe in his voice. “What would it take to break such focus? I imagine the sight would be fascinating.”

The branch broke beneath his foot. His heartbeat was loud in his ears. Lavellan gathered the branch in his arms and declared it enough kindling.

“It’s easy to break my focus,” he said and walked closer. Solas stayed unmoving, watched his approach. “Just wave a box of macarons in my face.”

He smiled. “It seems the Inquisitor has a weakness for sweet treats.”

“Sweet treats that are bad for you in copious amounts,” he snorted.

“Yet you do not heed the danger.”

Lavellan stared at him, gaze briefly flickering up and down in appraisal before he could stop himself. Something in Solas’ gaze sharpened.

“You are what you eat,” said Lavellan. He turned away. “And to answer your earlier question, I’d make for a terrible mage because I have a feeling I’ll push boundaries.”

And he _did_ , back in Elvhenan. There were faint memories of a vague hungering for knowledge, and his arsenal had been filled with a sundry of spells — offensive, defensive, both, neither, and the absolutely useless except in specific occasions. 

“I do not see the problem,” said Solas.

Lavellan smiled at him. “You wouldn’t. I suspect everyone else would be less inclined to agree.”

“You would have flourished in Elvhenan.” Something indiscernible shimmered in his eyes.

“I would have been a slave,” he gently reminded.

That brought Solas up short. He bowed his head. “Then you would have been a slave coveted by many.”

“That’s not any better.”

“I never said it was.” A hard edge crept into his voice. “You do not yield easily. Many would have enjoyed the challenge of breaking you.”

“They would have failed.”

“I know.”

Why were they having this conversation?

_I yield to one man only._

Lavellan stopped at the thought.

> _“They have no authority over me.”_
> 
> _“Only me?”_
> 
> _“Only you.”_

The voices curled, faded. The branches dug into Lavellan’s chest as he tightened his hold. Solas was looking at him. Lavellan didn’t meet his eyes.

“We should have enough kindling. Let’s go back,” said Lavellan.

They walked back in another silence, but Solas was still eyeing him.

“Have I angered you?” asked Solas.

Lavellan shook his head. “It’s not you.”

“The ghost, then?”

“I think I was just tired,” he lied. “There was no ghost. Besides, ghost sightings are usually just spirits.”

Lavellan wasn’t looking but he could feel Solas frowning. They returned to camp and set the kindling and firewood down.

Varric told them a story over dinner and Lavellan laughed along during the appropriate parts, but his current company was irritatingly perceptive, so he had a feeling nobody was buying it. Nobody mentioned anything though.

After dinner, Varric and Bull settled into a conversation, Cole content to listen. Lavellan wandered the area and gathered some flowers, then settled near the fire and worked on making a flower crown just to keep his hands and mind busy. Vergala rested on his lap and helped him braid parts of the crown.

Solas sat beside Lavellan. But he said nothing. Merely opened his field journal and wrote new notes into it under the light of his magic. Lavellan glanced at him.

“I will not ask,” said Solas. “But I am here.”

Lavellan’s heart clenched. He smiled in thanks.

A comforting silence passed, punctuated by the crackling fire, the scratch of Solas’ quill, and Bull and Varric’s faint conversation. Something about Varric writing about Bull’s muscles? Lavellan snorted every now and again while he eavesdropped.

Lavellan and Vergala finished the flower crown.

 _“Are you going to make him a flower crown next?”_ Varric had asked.

He glanced at Solas.

And put it on his head.

Solas stopped writing, stared at Lavellan who grinned.

“You’re not allowed to take it off,” said Lavellan. “Inquisitor’s orders.”

Vergala cawed.

“And Vergala.”

“Ah, well, who am I to refuse?” asked Solas, smiling.

“Can I get one?” Bull asked.

“No, I’m out of flowers.”

“This is clearly favouritism,” Varric complained.

“This is me running out of resources.”

“It’s fine.” Varric faked weeping and wiped a tear away. Lavellan rolled his eyes. “We understand. Solas is your favourite.”

“Keep that up and he will be,” said Lavellan.

Solas chuckled.

Bull and Varric eventually folded for the night while Vergala played with Cole. Solas was still writing beside him.

Lavellan watched Vergala. “Hey Solas?” he asked and Solas hummed in response. “Can a spirit possess an animal?”

Solas paused his writing and looked up at him. “Is this about Vergala?”

“Yes.”

“You suspect she is possessed by a spirit.”

“I don’t know. I’m just entertaining options, I guess.”

“Possession occurs when the host’s will is overridden or bypassed. Possession can also be peaceful; a merging with a consenting host. Although at that stage, I would not call it possession.” Solas closed his journal. “Animals are difficult to tempt, and being forceful takes a great amount of energy on the spirit’s part, thus, animals are not prone to being possessed. However, spirits can take the form of animals, provided the spirit has the personality and will to remain intact in this realm.”

Lavellan frowned. No, none of those sounded right.

“But if Vergala were possessed or is a spirit who has taken form,” Solas continued, “we would have realised by now. It is possible that she really is just a very intelligent raven.”

“She knows Elvish,” said Lavellan. “She was able to translate a Common word into Elvish.”

“Which is?”

“Veredhe. Mayhem.”

“Has she translated any other words? It is possible that she has just connected the Common word to its Elvish counterpart.”

“Maybe,” Lavellan mumbled, unconvinced. What had Ghilan’nain done to her? What had Lavellan done after? He shook his head. “I think I’ll go sleep now. Will you stay up?”

“Not for much longer.”

Lavellan nodded and stretched, before sharing a good night. He walked back to his tent, eyeing the halla statue on the way, before he entered the tent and curled up in his bedroll, his mind firing with questions that flitted by too fast for him to make them out.

He slept and dreamt. Faint impressions, nothing concrete.

Severe golden eyes, a silver crown with three prongs. 

_“Take care, Isha’belsal’in. You may be the most powerful within Dirthamen’s court, but there is only so much protection he can grant you.”_

Lavellan startled awake to Solas shaking him.

The distress gleaming in Solas’ eyes chased Lavellan’s lethargy away.

“Solas?” The light was subdued outside. Early morning light.

“I require your help,” said Solas, tone edged with urgency. “It is a friend of mine. They are in danger.”

Lavellan’s stomach dropped.

“They have been captured by mages and forced into slavery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas may have a flower crown as a treat for his communication attempts last chapter. 
> 
> Listen. Ghilan'nain is TERRIFYING. Did you hear abt all that shit in Tevinter Nights??? And do you remember that armour set you find in Trespasser? With the spooky armour that hugs you too tight and the belt that always tightens no matter how loose you buckle it and the necklace that always has condensation on its surface? And the codex entries accompanying each piece in the set was just creepy af.
> 
> (Hey Ras, what the FUCK. What'd you and Ghilly do to Vergala)
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ar elanan:** I can[⇧]  
> [2] **Ma enaste tarsul na:** My favour to you[⇧]


	52. Message of passing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter than usual because that's just how the scene unfolded and i like where/how the chapter ends

_in mournful hyacinth fields—_

* * *

How could Lavellan have forgotten?

“Do you know where?” asked Lavellan.

“Yes. I got a sense of my friend’s location before I awoke. Nearby.”

Lavellan hurried out of the bedroll. “Let’s go.”

If Lavellan’s rush surprised Solas, he didn’t show it. Or perhaps he was too preoccupied to notice.

“Up, up, everyone up!” Lavellan ordered, quickly slapping his gear on. His companions peered out their tents groggily, but they saw Solas and Lavellan’s harried expressions and geared up immediately without question.

“What happened?” Lavellan asked, slipping his gloves on.

“We were conversing when my friend was abruptly pulled from the Fade,” said Solas, eyes hard as he snapped his coat on. “And I heard the call for help shortly after.”

Lavellan’s heart thundered. There was still a chance that Wisdom would remain uncorrupted then. They had to hurry.

They got on their horses and rode.

Lavellan clutched the reins tight, gritting his teeth.

How could he have forgotten?

A bright flash in the distance. Screams. An explosion. Ringing of metal. The noises startled the horses and they halted, backed away with nervous nickers.

Solas cursed and slid off his horse, breaking out into a sprint.

“Solas—!” Lavellan hurriedly dismounted and raced across the field in pursuit, the stream burbling beside them. They ran up a small hillside and paused once they reached the top.

A small group of mages were defending against bandits, outnumbered two to one, but Solas’ focus was on the magic circle pulsing in the near distance with an emerald spirit caught within it.

“My friend,” whispered Solas, voice breaking. He took his staff out and extended it, rushed towards Wisdom.

“Help the mages with the bandits,” Lavellan ordered the others. “I’ll go help Solas.”

They unsheathed their weapons, Varric’s crossbow clicking as he removed the guard. Bull led the charge towards the bandits. Lavellan went after Solas.

One of the mages stopped Solas before he could reach the circle, gesticulating frantically while Solas yelled back. _Oh no._

“Do you even know what kind of spirit you have summoned?” asked Solas.

“We just needed it to fight for a short time—”

“It is a spirit of _Wisdom,_ ” Solas exploded. “And it can become corrupted into _Pride_ if you force it to go against its nature. It is not a fighter.” There was a heat to his words, an undercurrent of bitter resignation, and Lavellan’s chest tightened. 

_“He wants to give wisdom, not orders,”_ Cole had once said. Solas was watching his friend go through what he had.

Solas tried to sidestep the mage. “I do not have time for this.”

The mage pointed his staff at Solas. Lavellan closed the distance in a flash and pressed his dagger against the mage’s neck. The rune on his dagger pulsed red.

“Put,” Lavellan said calmly, “the staff down. If this cuts into you, it’ll burn like hell.”

The mage stared at him, paling. He lowered the staff. Lavellan lifted the dagger and stepped back.

“Undo the binding,” Solas said, eyes flashing with murderous intent.

The mage sputtered. “We can’t do that!”

“Can’t as in you refuse to, or can’t as in you don’t have the skill to?” asked Lavellan.

“We— We don’t know how to.”

Solas released a derisive breath. “Of course you don’t! How fitting.”

Wisdom shrieked. A pained and tortured sound.

Solas frantically shouldered past the mage. “Move!”

The mage trailed after him in protest. Lavellan glanced at the other mages and the bandits, but Bull, Cole, and Varric had a handle on it. They’d be finished soon.

He followed Solas to the magic circle instead, the ambient magic growing thick around them. Constricting. The jagged pillars situated at the cardinal points of the circle pulsed green.

Wisdom was in the middle, curled in on itself, looking far too solid.

Green lightning streaked from the pillars and struck it. It cried out again. A torn breath escaped Solas.

“Wisdom is fighting,” Solas said, voice thin. “Fighting to remain as Wisdom. We must break the summoning circle. No circle, no orders to fight, no conflict with its nature.”

“That can be dangerous!” protested the mage.

“My friend merely wishes to be freed and to return to the Fade.”

“Friend? You can’t be friends with a—”

“Shut,” said Solas, “up.”

Lavellan eyed the pillars. “Those pillars are the conduits, right? I’ve studied this kind of ritual with my sister before.” He apologised mentally to Ellana for using her as an excuse again. “If we break them, the summoning circle loses magical integrity.”

“We can’t,” said Solas, teeth gritted. Lavellan’s whirring thoughts halted.

“What?”

“The pillars are tethering Wisdom to both the Fade and the physical realm. If we break it—” He closed his eyes. “Wisdom will lose its connection to the Fade. Compounded with the stress from being unwillingly pulled into this world, it will shatter and die.”

But— But that was how they had freed Wisdom!

“It worked before,” Lavellan said, uncomprehending. “With— My sister and I freed the spirit.”

“Was the spirit already corrupted?” Solas asked, morose.

“I— Yes. But it became a spirit again and then…” Lavellan looked down. “And then died. But I thought it died because it’d been corrupted already.”

Solas’ shoulders slumped. “All that has done is remove the orders given to the spirit. You have freed it, but its death was already inescapable.”

Lavellan stared at him, eyes wide.

“So… what now?” Lavellan asked, his heart in his throat. “Do you know how to undo it?”

Solas inspected the circle, then shook his head, shooting the mage a sharp look. “This kind of circle can only be undone by the caster.”

There had to be _something_.

Lavellan stared at his left hand.

“What if Wisdom can retain a connection to the Fade?” Lavellan asked. Solas looked at him.

“It is still bound here.”

“When I open sunders, it tries to pull you back into the Fade. Do you think it can simulate that connection?”

Solas furrowed his brows in thought. “I— It may. Possibly.”

“I can keep one open above Wisdom while the others work on breaking the pillars. After that, no more conflicting orders so no more threat of corruption.”

“Opening sunders hurts you.”

Lavellan smiled wryly. “Well, you’d all better be quick then.”

Footsteps approached behind them, then stopped. The others must have defeated the bandits.

Another strike of lightning. Another agonised cry from Wisdom. Solas’ expression fell.

“Shit,” whispered Varric behind them.

“Solas, we’re running out of time,” said Lavellan.

“I—” He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “The ambient magic is thick and may interfere. You will have to step into the circle and stay close to Wisdom. We’ll test first if the sunder can successfully simulate a tether.”

Lavellan turned to his companions. “There’s no time to explain, but you see those pillars? I need you to break them once we give the clear.”

“No magic needed for that, right?” asked Varric.

“I will interrupt the magical current so that you can break it,” said Solas. “But I will not be able to cast any other spells while doing so.” He gave Lavellan a meaningful glance. “I cannot ease the pain that the Anchor will cause.”

Lavellan nodded and took a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. Just— Hurry.”

He eyed the edge of the magic circle, then stepped into it. The shift in ambient magic was immediate. He sucked in a sharper breath as his skin suddenly felt too tight, his lungs seized up momentarily, and something within him shrunk into itself. The Well of Sorrows’ murmurings became muffled. There was a whisper of something else, a call to violence, but it was dismissible enough.

Maybe he should have considered how this would impact the spirit part of him.

He hurried to Wisdom’s side and knelt. Creators, this ambient magic was heavy and draining.

His breaths echoed in his ears.

Wisdom raised its head, its too-solid form reaching for him. He reached back and grasped its hand. Her hand. The whispers of her face were twisted in hurt. She smelt of spilled ink and ruins soaked by rain.

“Change,” she gasped.

He held her close and raised his hand, the Anchor flaring.

“Hold on,” he soothed, his voice coming out thick. “Just a while longer. Solas is here.”

He opened a sunder above them and held Wisdom tighter as if he could keep her together that way. The sting pricked at his palms. Bearable for now.

The Fade pulled at them. Wisdom clung onto him, burying her face into his coat, a green thread of magic coiling between her and the sunder.

“Are you still tethered to the Fade?” he asked.

She nodded weakly and hope pooled in his chest.

“It’s working!” he yelled. “Go!”

Solas slammed his staff down and intercepted the summoning circle’s magical flow. The ambient magic around them lightened somewhat and the Veil rippled.

The fire lit in his veins. Lavellan breathed through it.

“Are you okay?” he asked Wisdom.

“It is loud,” she whimpered. “Telling me to kill.”

The pain gnawed at his bones, threaded electricity through it. His muscles seized up. A strangled sound churned at the back of his throat. The Fade was pulling at him too, making it difficult to move.

Bull roared as he and Cole hacked away at a pillar and Varric shot explosive bolts at another. The ambient magic shuddered.

His entire skin felt as if it were full of boiling water.

“Oh gods,” he whispered to himself, scrunching his watering eyes shut.

One pillar broke. Wisdom’s form stopped being too solid, her hair wisping around her jaw.

He let out a yell if only to give the pain an outlet.

The pain. It reminded him of all the nights he’d whimpered and sobbed to himself, gripping his arm as his cold and empty bedroom filled with the emerald light of the Anchor.

Wisdom tugged at him. “You must stop! You cannot hold this open for long. Your arm—”

Another pillar broke. The emerald light of her form turned more vibrant.

“Hurry!” came Solas’ voice.

“We’re trying!”

Lavellan swayed. Wisdom supported him.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, it hurts, it hurts—_

“You have to stop!” cried Wisdom.

“I’m not letting you die,” he managed to grit out.

“Stop!”

The pain scorched its way up to his jaw.

Lavellan bowed his head, searching for _anything_ else to focus on. He could smell the sweet lightning of magic.

He hummed his mother’s lullaby shakily.

Endure, endure.

“Change, that’s enough,” Wisdom whispered and cradled his face. He looked into her eyes aglow with emerald, the whispers of her face pulled in worry. “Enough.”

“No,” he said, voice quivering and choked.

Another pillar broke. One left. Last one. He just had to hold on until then.

The edges of Wisdom’s form were softening even further, and she looked as though she could tangle within the summer winds.

“Enough,” she said again. “You need not put yourself through this.”

His expression crumbled and the tears that had been pricking at his eyes fell. “He needs you.”

“We must all say our farewells.” She smiled gently. “He will have memories of me, and once the pain eases, they will give him comfort instead.”

“Last one,” he said, almost feverishly. “I just need— One. It’s one.”

His vision flickered. The Well of Sorrows roared in his ears and he grimaced.

“Almost there, Mercy!” yelled Bull.

“You are concentrating far too much potent magic within one area,” said Wisdom. The Anchor flashed erratically, sent pulses of pain each time. Lavellan cried out. “You will exacerbate its condition prematurely.”

Memories of the chronic, often excruciating pain he’d had to weather for three years returned. Gods, he couldn’t do that again.

But he only had a few more seconds left to endure.

“Just a bit more,” he said. At least, that was what he thought he’d said. He couldn’t think past the scorching waves of lightning.

The Anchor flared. The sunder above them gave a low, whining sound.

The Veil snapped around his hand.

“Thank you,” whispered Wisdom. “Please take care of him.”

She slipped from his grasp and hurriedly clasped her hands over his, forced his fingers to close, wrapped herself around it.

His heart sank. The hope that had pooled in his chest turned stagnant.

“Wait—!”

Wisdom severed her connection to the Fade. The sunder closed.

“No!”

The last pillar broke.

Light exploded and blinded them.

Lavellan flinched away from it and scrunched his eyes shut, the brightness flooding behind his eyelids. The Veil electrified.

The light eventually faded back into the soft lights of early morning. Lavellan opened his eyes.

Wisdom was slumped on the ground ahead of him, her light dimming. Lavellan staggered up. His left hand flared with both pain and light and he stumbled, gripped his arm at the elbow. The entire arm prickled. Too warm. He removed his glove and found his hand was entirely covered in a web of green lightning. Rolling his sleeves up revealed the same thing.

He fell to his knees beside her.

“Why?” he croaked out. “It was close.”

Wisdom struggled to raise her head, but she still found the energy to smile. “It was. For you. A second more and it would have been a point of no return.”

His eyes watered again.

Solas rushed towards them, knelt beside Wisdom and gently lifted her up so she could lean against him. He looked lost.

“I— I do not understand,” said Solas. “You— You’re fading. I don’t understand.”

Her light dimmed further. The edges of her trailed away like the flags of a defeated nation fluttering in the breeze of war’s aftermath. She closed her eyes and smiled. “I am free, and I am me. That is all that matters.”

Solas’ gaze fell on Lavellan’s arm and his eyes widened in understanding.

“You stopped him,” said Solas.

“I am at peace,” said Wisdom. “Will you guide me into death?”

Solas bowed his head. Lavellan looked up at the sky in defeat, drained, cradling his arm. The skin was too raw. Even the breeze stung.

“Ma nuvenin[1],” said Solas as he raised his head, eyes lined with sorrow.

Wisdom pressed their foreheads together. “Ma tel'sasha[2],” she whispered. “Tel'asama em la'var tumarin, y la'var lea[3].”

Solas exhaled shakily and held her hands. His magic wrapped softly around her, comforting and gentle, and Wisdom closed her eyes.

With a contented sigh, she faded with the wind.

 _“Thank you,”_ her voice echoed in Lavellan’s head.

The silence fell. Lavellan hung his head and clenched his jaw.

“Now I must endure,” Solas whispered to himself. He placed a careful hand over the one Lavellan had gripped his injured arm with. “Show me.”

Lavellan hesitated, then slowly pulled his left arm out of his coat, hissing as it brushed against the fabric. Solas inhaled sharply.

The skin was red, the green lightning had invaded up to his biceps, and Lavellan swallowed a small whimper. It looked too similar to when it had begun to worsen four years ago. He’d worn gloves and long sleeves then, if only to hide it from the others. Lavellan had held some scrap of hope that it would go away on its own, but a larger part of him had known he was dying.

Solas touched the skin. Lavellan flinched at the arc of pain that shot up his arm. Solas frowned in concentration as he ran glowing hands over Lavellan’s arm. It took a few minutes, but the green lightning eventually faded, and the magic soothed the skin.

“Can you move your fingers?” asked Solas.

Lavellan clenched and unclenched his hand, wiggled his fingers. His skin still felt strange, as if it had been pulled too tight over the bone, but it was no longer painful. He could breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan whispered.

“No, never. Not— No. This was not your fault. This was not anybody’s fault.” He glanced up and his eyes sharpened. “Except theirs.”

Solas rose, gaze dark and murderous. The air around him bristled with barely bridled magic.

The group of mages cowered.

“You,” said Solas, took a menacing step forward, “tortured and killed my friend.”

“We— We were travelling on the road,” stammered the mage, “and it was far too dangerous to travel unprotected. You saw the bandits—”

“Your incompetence has cost a life.”

Lavellan forced himself to stand, ignoring the weakness and fatigue of his entire body.

Solas raised his hand, lightning sparking and gathering in his palms.

Lavellan grabbed Solas’ hand. “Solas, no.”

He shot Lavellan an incredulous look. “ _No_?” he echoed. “They _killed_ my friend.”

“And I’m sorry, truly, I am. But killing them isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

“It will certainly ensure that they do not get others killed with their incompetence.”

Lavellan tightened his grip around Solas’ hand. “Inquisitor’s orders. No.”

Solas’ look turned heated but Lavellan kept his calm.

“You,” Solas said, “have chosen the most inopportune time to flaunt your authority and display your merciful streak.” He ripped his hand out of Lavellan’s and turned on his heel, walking away.

He grabbed Solas’ sleeve before he could stop himself, panic clawing up his throat. “Wait,” he said, cursed at how his voice cracked.

Solas’ gaze softened as he looked back at him. “I wish to be alone. Before I unjustly lay the blame at your feet and say something I will regret. Please, let me go.”

Lavellan forced his fingers open. Solas closed his eyes and took a calming breath, then turned and walked away without another word, left them choking in the icy silence. Lavellan sighed to himself and turned to the mages. There were five of them. Two of them were elderly.

“If you would like sanctuary, I have an offer,” said Lavellan, exhausted. “South of here, into the Emerald Graves, there’s a group of Orlesian refugees. Speak to their leader, Fairbanks, and tell them Mahanon has asked if you can stay with them. At least until you get your shit together. If you don’t know the way, I can ask one of the Inquisition scouts to get you there.”

“We can’t send them to Skyhold?” asked Varric.

Bull made a noise. “You think Solas would like that? If you put the people who killed his friend in the same space as him…” He shrugged. “Well, Skyhold’s big and Mercy can’t be everywhere to stop him from making fireworks.”

“I’m not throwing you to the wolves,” said Lavellan to the mages. “Leaving you to fend for yourselves or making you go to Skyhold will be doing just that. Fairbanks is your safest option. Just— go. Let this serve as a lesson to all of you. Don’t mess with spirits if you have no idea what you’re playing with. They have wills of their own.”

The mages shuffled. They all looked so haggard.

“Think about it. If you wish to accept, walk east and you’ll find an Inquisition camp. Tell them the Inquisitor wishes to send you to Fairbanks.” He turned and nodded at his companions. “Let’s… get back to camp.”

They returned to their horses and rode back.

Upon return, everyone stared at each other, uncertain and subdued.

“You think he’ll come back?” Varric asked softly.

“He will,” mumbled Lavellan. “I just don’t know when.”

“Alright,” said Varric. “Why don’t we wait until tomorrow? If Chuckles isn’t here by then, we’ll go back to Skyhold and just leave a letter?”

Lavellan nodded, hands clenching by his sides. Last time, Solas hadn’t returned for days. Lavellan had pored over book after book about spirits and their deaths in his distress. He’d thought Solas wouldn’t ever come back.

Varric and Bull said something about getting breakfast and Lavellan couldn’t remember if he’d nodded or not. He sat against the base of the halla statue and rested his head against the stone, absentmindedly rubbing his arm. Cole sat beside him. They watched the clouds.

“She stopped me. We could have—” Lavellan closed his eyes.

“Terrible twisting, tearing himself apart. Change spirits never know when to stop,” said Cole, adopting a slightly exasperated tone. He shook his head, tone returning to normal. “She knew it was time. She and him have had a lot of time together, but he still has memories to make with you. He’ll be alright. She can rest because he’ll be okay.”

Lavellan looked away. Everything in him was sore. “He’s not okay at the moment though. Could you try to find him please? Just… make sure he’s alright.”

Cole was silent for a moment, then he nodded and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

The day wore on, but Solas didn’t return. Lavellan’s apologies crescendoed in his head along with the mantra of, “Please be alright.”

Cole returned around midday.

“He wants to be alone,” said Cole.

Lavellan deflated. “Right, yeah, that’s fair.”

“I told him you’re waiting, but you’ll leave if he makes you wait too long.”

He stared at Cole.

“He knows what I mean.” With that, Cole wandered off and left Lavellan to blink at his retreating back. Lavellan chewed on his lip and slunk back into his tent. He was still aching everywhere.

He slept undisturbed for most of the day.

Once he awoke, night had already fallen. Lavellan shambled out of the tent, hope in his throat, but Solas still wasn’t back.

“Hey Mercy,” greeted Bull, sitting by the fire with Varric and Cole. “How you feeling? We’ve got food if you’re hungry.”

Lavellan sat with them, pulled his knees up to his chest. “Arm doesn’t hurt any more. Not hungry though. Did Solas…?”

Varric shook his head.

“Ah.”

Varric and Bull tried to distract him with stories and anecdotes, but the atmosphere was too funereal for it.

They eventually retreated for the night but Lavellan was still wide awake from his nap. He was drawn back to the base of the halla statue so he sat there, tipped his head back to rest against it, and watched the stars.

He buried his head in his hands, pulled at his hair.

He’d forgotten. Something this important to Solas and he’d forgotten. He could have done… _something_. Could have cleared the area entirely of bandits when they were last here so that the mages wouldn’t have felt the need to summon a spirit in defence.

Lavellan had let his pain overshadow too much.

“But it does that,” said Cole, suddenly beside him. “Hurt is loud, and there’s too much. You can’t remember them all. You’re only one.”

Lavellan didn’t answer.

They sat together in complete silence but Lavellan’s thoughts didn’t spiral as he’d expected them to. He glanced at Cole. He was cupping a dark clump of smoke pulsing with blue.

“Is that mine?” asked Lavellan.

“Yes.” He gently closed his hands over it, and the smoke drifted through the spaces of his fingers and dissipated. “If it’s not tangled and it won’t help, I take it.”

Lavellan found himself smiling. “I’m glad you’re here, Cole.”

“Me too.” He looked up at the stars and pointed at one constellation. “That one’s the ship?”

His smile widened slightly. “Right.”

That was how they ended up passing the time, until Lavellan’s drowsiness returned and he ended up nodding off.

He dreamt again.

White hair swayed, dark eyes liquid.

 _She smiled._ _“You and I, they fear us.”_

_“They fear us in different ways.”_

_“No. They fear us because we_ see _more than they’d like. They don’t like it when we see. They don’t like it when we use that to create.”_

_“I destroy.”_

_“And in so doing, create. But are you creating something within the world or within yourself?” Ghilan’nain made a clean, deep, and large incision down the middle of the doe struggling on her table. Black pooled. The struggles stopped. “It’s hard being Change. You need to keep moving. But moving too much unravels you. You decay in the chaos of the aftermath.”_

_The black slipped over the table edge and dripped onto the floor._

_“Interesting, isn’t it?” she asked. “Entropy. The tail to Change. Always following, always a part of you, close behind.”_

_He smiled at her. “Or is it a second head?”_

_Ghilan’nain reached into the doe. “You’re becoming more aware of yourself.”_

_He stayed quiet. The crack of ligaments and snap of bone filled the air._

_“Good,” she said. “Questioning is good.”_

_“Aren’t you supposed to discourage that?”_

_“Why? Ask. Question. Always. They will make you stop. Never stop. Keep asking, keep pushing.” She ripped something out. “Until you hold the heart of the matter in your hands.” She presented the doe heart. He took it. It weighed almost nothing._

_“It’s light,” he said._

_“Because it’s not true.”_

_“Are you true?”_

_“No truer than you. And you become truer every day. It is a dangerous thing when the scalpel recognises it is gripped by a hand connected to an arm connected to a person. A person who is you. You were your own weapon all along.”_

_The heart crumbled into white ash._

_“Blood can only reach so far,” said Ghilan’nain. “We are more than our tethers.”_

_“I unravel without mine.”_

_“Unravel? Or evolve?”_

_The white ash slipped between the spaces of his fingers. The doe on the table convulsed, spilled ash from the incision—_

Lavellan jolted awake at the sound of footsteps, heart thundering.

Was that a memory or a dream? An amalgamation of both?

He glanced beside him, but Cole was gone.

The footsteps stopped in front of him. Lavellan looked up instead and met Solas’ eyes, dark grey in the dim, and his thundering heart faltered.

“Why are you outside?” asked Solas, eyes so tired. The skin beneath them looked irritated, as if it had been rubbed aggressively.

“I was waiting for you.” His heart echoed in his ears. Solas had returned. Early, at that. “How are you?”

Solas glanced away. “I may have carved a new hole into a hillside.” He held himself tight and careful, every action and word measured as if he were water about to spill over the lip of its container.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He turned his head and met Lavellan’s eyes again. “It hurts,” he said. “It always does. But I will survive.” Even as he said it, the words were controlled, held by a fraying thread.

Lavellan stood, crossed the distance in two long strides, and pulled Solas close and held him in his arms. Solas tensed but Lavellan knew it was more a shock at the touch than true revulsion. He cradled the back of Solas’ head and guided it down to rest over Lavellan’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Lavellan reassured. “You’re not alone.”

Solas’ next breath sounded punched. The next shuddered. And the next was a soft sob.

His hands rested on Lavellan’s waist, gripping the fabric of Lavellan’s tunic tight. He angled his head towards Lavellan’s neck as if hiding from the world and Lavellan held him tighter, shielding him. The world had no business seeing this. He held Solas through his silent sobs.

_I’m so sorry._

Solas didn’t allow himself to weep for long, but he lingered in the embrace. Lavellan smelled the sweet lightning of his magic. Remnants of it.

Solas soon raised his head, looking worn and battered, smudged tears shimmering on his cheeks and lashes. Lavellan pulled him gently towards the long-dead fire.

“Here, sit,” directed Lavellan and sat Solas down.

Lavellan grabbed two cloths and a basin from his tent and filled that with clean water. He dipped one cloth in the basin and wrung out the water, held the back of Solas’ head, and gently wiped away the tears. 

“Mamae used to do this whenever we cried,” said Lavellan, passing the cloth over Solas’ eyelids, down his cheeks, beneath his nose. “The cold water soothes, and the repetitive motions are calming.”

Solas stared at him through it but Lavellan focused on the task.

“I apologise for ruining your tunic,” Solas finally said, raw and thick from tears.

Lavellan snorted and grabbed a dry cloth. “I’ve ruined a fair share of yours.” He patted Solas’ face dry and smiled after. “There.”

He folded the cloths. Solas whispered something beneath his breath.

“Hm?” asked Lavellan.

Solas smiled. It was faint and brittle, but it was sincere. “Nothing.”

They settled in the new quiet.

“Where did you go?” asked Lavellan as he packed the cloths away.

“I considered visiting the place in the Fade where my friend and I would frequently converse,” he said and looked down at his hands on his lap. “But I cannot weather it just yet.”

Once Lavellan had nothing left to fiddle with, he settled beside Solas.

“I had a thought that you may not return,” Lavellan admitted.

“I could hardly abandon you now,” said Solas.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“I would have.”

Lavellan looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Solas shook his head. “It is I who must apologise. I should have… The Anchor, it— I should have known that abusing it may have risked your—” He cut himself off.

Lavellan stared. He didn’t ask Solas about the Anchor and its life-threatening effects, now wasn’t the time, but he still placed weight in his silence and made it a message of its own.

_We’ll be addressing this later._

“What if I went with you?” Lavellan offered instead. “Into the Fade where you and your friend used to converse. If that’s something you’d like. And this might sound like a silly question but… are there any rites for a spirit’s passing? A way to remember them?”

“It is not a silly question, and I appreciate that you thought to ask,” he said. “A spirit’s death is not the same as a mortal’s. Its energy returns to the Fade, and if the idea giving the spirit form is strong, or if the memory has shaped other spirits, it may someday rise again.”

“But it’s not the same,” Lavellan whispered.

“No,” he whispered back. Solas held out his hand. Lavellan rested his over it. “But I think your presence will provide me with the courage to face this.”

“I think you have the courage to face this regardless,” said Lavellan. “But you shouldn’t have to grieve alone.”

“It’s been some time since I had the option of not being alone in my mourning.” He grasped Lavellan’s hand. “It’s been so long since I could trust someone.”

Something tight tangled in Lavellan’s chest as he stared at their joined hands. The weight off all his secrets pressed in on him. They were no longer on his shoulders; they’d become a part of him, like cobwebs in the chambers of his heart.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to trust me,” murmured Lavellan. “I’m sure you know I’m hiding things.”

“I believe the situation is the same on your end.”

“You still want to trust me?”

“Again, I reflect that question back at you.”

Lavellan laughed softly to himself. “I guess we’re both idiots.”

Solas smiled. “Quite.”

He returned Solas’ smile with a wry one of his own. “Shall we go to where you and your friend would converse?”

They stood and slipped into their tent, let go of each other’s hands if only so they could settle into their respective bedrolls, then faced each other once again. Lavellan reached for Solas' hand between them. Solas took it. Lavellan closed his eyes, focused on their soft breaths, the warmth gathering between their palms.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing on a hillside overlooking a field of purple hyacinths. The clouds in the sky held soft shades of pastel and the wind carried the soothing yet indiscernible whispers of a lost song.

His hand was still warm. He glanced down and found Solas’ hand still in his.

Solas led him to the shade of a lone tree by the hillside. It flowered, vibrant and pink.

They sat. Said nothing at all. Lavellan offered his presence as a simple constant, and side by side, they stayed.

“Thank you,” Solas whispered as a breeze rolled past.

Lavellan squeezed his hand in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has gone through FOUR rewrites before I was finally pleased with it. I hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> Lavellan: I know how to fix this!  
> Solas: well yes but no  
> Lavellan: windows xp error sound
> 
> Also, chapters are going to be shorter from now on (around 3-4k words) if only to lighten the workload on my end. To compensate, I'll update twice a week. So Monday/Thursday deal again. You'd still get the same amount of content in a week. This way, I'm just breaking it up for myself and my proofreader (and possibly you if you get daunted by the word count every update, apologies lmao) 
> 
> So next update is Thursday, and from then on, Mon + Thurs.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ma nuvenin:** As you wish[⇧]  
> [2] **Ma tel'sasha:** You are not alone[⇧]  
> [3] **Tel'asama em la'var tumarin, y la'var lea:** Carry me not as a weight, but as a light[⇧]


	53. A call for home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So next update is Thursday, and from then on, Mon + Thurs."
> 
> My beta was busy so this hasn't been proofread. But since I'm a Grade A Impatient Bitch, double updates start a week earlier than what I'd said.

_and home's bid for truth—_

* * *

The weeks passed by in a blur of responsibilities. Besides attending to his duties as Inquisitor, Lavellan also kept an eye on Solas, made sure he ate and slept properly since he’d been burying himself in work and neglecting to take care of himself.

Vivienne had also sent a letter back to inform Lavellan that she would remain in Orlais for a while to organise Duke Bastien’s funeral and manage the political implications of his death.

But still no news about his clan.

On top of everything else, Lavellan’s homesickness returned with a vengeance.

He would wear the gifts that he’d received from Clan Venalin to alleviate some of it, the Dalish scarves and halla bone amulet on full display, Revasha’s hunting charm around his wrist. That way, he’d feel closer to home. Closer to reclaiming himself. It helped, but it still wasn’t enough.

His restlessness had returned as well. Maybe it was from the stress or the homesickness… or something else. Ever since their return from the Exalted Plains, something within him had become agitated, shifting beneath his skin. His left arm was fine now, so it likely wasn’t the Anchor’s doing. He couldn’t put a name to whatever was causing his agitation.

He groaned to himself and shifted in his bed, turned his pillow to the cool side for about the sixth time that night, then turned again to stare at the ceiling.

Restlessness on top of homesickness. His room felt too empty. He’d placed the blankets from Clan Venalin over his bed but that only made him miss home more. He missed sleeping in close quarters within the clan, missed the aravels placed beside each other, missed the warm nights where they’d unfurl their bedrolls beneath the stars.

He grumbled and got up, wrapped Clan Venalin’s blankets around him, and descended into the Great Hall. The cold stones were a shock to his bare feet, but he soon got used to it. He made his way to the Hall’s upper balcony.

Even chillier out here. He wrapped the blankets tighter around him and leaned his elbows on the railing. Skyhold was quiet, asleep. A few guards were patrolling the battlements while the tavern still glowed with a soft light.

Soft footsteps approached, familiar.

“Hello,” said Lavellan.

“Why are you still up?”

“My room felt empty.”

Solas stood beside him, staring off into the distance, a million thoughts shimmering behind his eyes.

“You stayed up late again,” said Lavellan.

“My sleep feels empty.”

Lavellan shuffled closer to him and draped the blanket over them both.

“How are you?” asked Lavellan.

Solas looked down, clutching his portion of the blanket tighter around him. “The hurt has dulled. No less painful, but it is not so overwhelming any more. I visited the hyacinth fields and found energy stirring there. One day, another spirit of Wisdom may arise from it.”

“Then I hope that one day, that spirit touches a life as much as Wisdom has touched yours.” A breeze ruffled his hair.

“I sincerely hope so, too.” He looked at Lavellan. “Thank you for… everything.”

“Likewise,” said Lavellan.

They stayed in the quiet, the blanket soft over his shoulders and Solas warm beside him.

“What were you like before the Anchor?” Solas asked.

Lavellan stared at Solas, tilted his head.

“Has it affected you?” Solas expanded. “Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your spirit?”

Lavellan resisted laughing at the wording of his question. Changed? He was Change incarnate.

“Sure, it’s definitely changed my stress levels,” he joked and Solas chuckled.

“Such is the burden of leadership and elevation to holy prophet.”

“Who would’ve thought that would drive a man mad, huh?” He stared at his left hand. “Although I suppose I did change, but it’s not a direct influence of the Anchor. Just the situation it’s brought about. But really, haven’t we all been changed? Mark or no mark.”

“True enough,” Solas acceded.

“What brought this on?”

“It— You show a wisdom I have not seen since… since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade.” His gaze softened. “You are not what I expected.”

Lavellan laughed, but it was tired and subdued. He passed a hand over his face. “I don’t feel very wise,” he said into his palm before he let his hand fall. “I feel like I’m fumbling.”

“You can be both. No being is perfect. Even the wise still finds things to learn.”

Two friends tottered out of the tavern, clearly intoxicated.

“You should rest soon,” said Solas.

“I can’t sleep.” He fiddled with the amulet. “It’s quiet. I usually like the quiet. Now my quarters feel too big. I mean, they _are_ ridiculously big for one person but—” He shook his head.

“You miss home,” murmured Solas.

“Skyhold is home too, don’t get me wrong.”

“You are allowed more than one home. It is perfectly fine for you to miss one.”

If only Lavellan could have both at once.

An idea sparked and Lavellan brightened. “Remember in the baths when you said you could paint a scene from the Emerald Graves?”

“Yes?”

“Can I commission you to paint a mural for my quarters? Maybe… Maybe if it’s there… Not even the Emerald Graves but just something that feels like home.”

“I would be honoured to,” said Solas, smiling.

“How much should I pay you?”

“What nonsense. It is a favour for you. I do not require payment.”

Lavellan huffed. “Art consumes effort and time—”

“It is no effort if it’s for you.”

Lavellan tripped over his words for a second, ears warming. “I’m paying you. I insist.”

“The Inquisition already pays me a generous sum for research. I am under no great financial stress.”

“Solas,” he complained. “You’re already painting the rotunda frescoes for free. Please, let me pay you.”

Solas regarded him with another frown, then he sighed. “Very well,” he said and Lavellan beamed. “But not with money.”

Lavellan blinked. “What? With what then?”

“Will you teach me Dalish history in return?”

“I—” His mind blanked at the request. “What? Dalish history? What do you mean?”

“Your customs, culture, traditions, stories. What makes the Dalish, Dalish.”

“But don’t you already know a few things from the Fade?”

Solas looked away. “There is a great difference between objectively seeing it yourself and hearing the accounts from an actual Dalish elf. I have been quick to dismiss, impatient to learn, and too hurt to keep trying. Perhaps some things I will never agree with, but I would like to learn how the Dalish have become separate people on their own merit, and yet see what connects them to the elves of the past.”

“Solas, that’s…” Lavellan’s eyes widened, breath catching, heart leaping. Had he ever shown an interest in Dalish culture before? “I— Yes, I can— Yes.” Lavellan’s eyes squinted from his smile. “Thank you.”

He smiled back. “Do not thank me yet. You may end up disliking the mural.”

“You could draw a scribbly dragon and I think I’d be happy.”

“It would certainly give you something to amuse yourself with.”

Lavellan laughed, gentle and breathless with joy.

* * *

Solas worked on planning the mural immediately and Lavellan dropped in when he could to check on the designs and brainstorm the composition with Solas. During afternoons or evenings, Lavellan would talk about Dalish history. They’d started with Solas’ misconceptions and worked forward from there. Often, they’d be in the rotunda. Sometimes the garden. Sometimes they’d roam Skyhold as they spoke.

It was one such afternoon. Lavellan was halfway down the front courtyard’s steps, in the middle of telling Solas about the politics in an Arlathvhen, when Lavellan caught sight of someone by the gates.

He stopped.

Solas glanced at him. “Lethallin?”

The person at the gates caught sight of him in return.

Lavellan took a hesitant step forward, feeling entirely unstable, then another step, and another, until he was rushing down the stairs.

Ellana dropped the bags she’d been carrying and ran to him.

Lavellan opened his arms and she all but jumped into them. He hugged her tight, burying his face into her neck.

“You’re alive,” he whispered and pulled back to cradle her face, torn between a sob or a disbelieving laugh. He managed a sound in between.

She laughed in return, but it sounded wet, her eyes shimmering. They hugged again and held onto one another and for a moment, everything was alright. He was alright. It would be alright.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

“I’ve missed you too. You don’t know much—” His voice wavered. “I miss home, Lana.”

She tightened the hug. “Home misses you too.”

They pulled away from each other. Lavellan looked over his shoulder, found Solas hovering at the bottom of the courtyard’s stairs with a gentle smile, and beckoned him closer. Solas hesitated, then approached.

“Solas,” said Lavellan once Solas was close enough, “this is my sister, Ellana, the First of Clan Lavellan.” A curl of pride still swirled within him every time he’d introduce her as the First. _Look at what she’s accomplished!_

“Andaran atish’an,” Solas greeted and Ellana nodded with a smile.

“Ellana, this is Solas. He’s one of my dearest friends.” The mocking voices of his friends echoed in his head. _Dearest friend! What a hoot!_ That one sounded like Dorian.

“Thank you for taking care of my brother,” said Ellana. “I know he can be stupid.”

Lavellan scowled. The other inhabitants of Skyhold were stealing glances at them in curiosity.

Solas cleared his throat to disguise a laugh. “It is no trouble,” he said.

“You don’t have to be polite,” said Ellana. “You can give it as a percentage. What percent of the time is my brother a pain?”

Lavellan shot Solas an unamused look. “Don’t answer that.”

“Ninety-eight,” said Solas.

“You didn’t even hesitate!” said Lavellan and he pointed at the gate. “Get out. Both of you. I’m kicking you both out.”

“Does that include the hart?” Ellana asked.

“The—” He finally noticed the hart lingering by the gates and the wagon it was pulling. “Is that yours?” he asked Ellana.

“Yeah! Some of the Wycome folks gave it to us as thanks. Keeper Deshanna gave it to me when I said I wanted to come up and see you now that everything in Wycome has been sorted.”

“What?” he asked. “Why didn’t I get a letter back? Do you know how worried sick I was?”

“I _am_ the letter back. Keeper Deshanna is now part of the new Wycome City Council as the Dalish representative, along with a city elf representative and several human merchants.”

Lavellan’s throat constricted and warmth stung his eyes because _alive, they were alive, I didn’t mess up_.

He ran his hands through his hair and laughed, shot them both a manic look because couldn’t they understand how significant this was? His family was alive. He didn’t kill them. His family was—

Lavellan reached for Ellana again as if confirming this wasn’t a dream. “Come here, let me have a look at you. I haven’t seen you in a while. You weren’t injured, were you? I know Wycome was a bitch and a half.”

She weathered through his fussing. “I’m fine, Hanon. I’m smart enough to stay alive.”

Lavellan gave her a look. “It wasn’t your intelligence I was questioning.” Rather, the impulse control of a bunch of racists with easy access to weapons.

Her eyes flashed in understanding and her disgruntled look softened as she patted his cheek. “I’m alright. The clan is safe.”

“I will leave you two so you may catch up,” said Solas. “I suspect there is a substantial amount of it to do.”

“I’m sorry to cut our conversation short,” said Lavellan.

“Please, do not apologise. We will have plenty of opportunities later.” He bowed. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ellana.”

“Likewise,” she said.

Solas left and they watched him go in silence.

Ellana glanced at Lavellan. “He is named Pride. Chosen or given?”

“Chosen,” murmured Lavellan. “A warning and a reminder.”

“To himself or to others?”

To that, Lavellan had no answer. Ellana shook her head and grinned at him instead.

“You and I have a _lot_ of catching up to do! Your hunters have gotten into so much shit during Wycome, it’s not even funny.”

Oh, he was sure. “Technically they’re Aenoreir’s hunters now since he’s the Warleader.”

“You may be leading an army now, Hanon, but they’ll always be your hunters. Should’ve seen them when you left for the Conclave. Aenoreir couldn’t find his own head lost up his arse without you pulling it out. Iranae would look for you every time she made a stupid joke and Sathian always sits by the halla every morning but you’re not there and it looks weird when he’s alone and…” She turned her head away, expression twisting, so subtle most people would have missed it.

Lavellan’s expression fell, heart twisting with longing, faded memories flashing in his mind. Her eyes turned misty.

“And we just— really miss you, Hanon. The aravel is so quiet without you and nobody fusses over my hair or nags me to clean up the mess. Your halla refuses to let the others ride her and she doesn’t pull any aravel besides ours. Everyone thought you’d died at the Conclave and the Keeper kept blaming herself, but then we heard about you getting caught up in the humans’ war and I know you told me about it but I was so scared and—”

“Hey,” he soothed, gathered her in his arms again as she gripped his scarf and rested her head against his chest. “It’s okay. It’s alright.”

Her shoulders shook. “And— And you looked so scared before you left.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was my own moment of weakness. I shouldn’t have burdened or scared you like that.”

She hit his chest with her fist, but the blow was weak. “Idiot, can you let me worry about you for once?”

“I think you’ve had half the year and more to do that.” He rested his chin on her head. “Lana, why did you come here? It isn’t safe.”

Ellana pulled back and frowned at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. “I came here to help my idiot family. No, you’re not turning me away or sending me back. I refuse to make that return trip.”

“Lana—” He paused, then cut himself off with a sigh. They were gathering an audience, and he couldn’t risk a spy overhearing them.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some food in you. You’ve had a long trip and you need to rest, then we can discuss this later.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I _am_ pretty hungry. Hearthmistress Lailani packed some of your favourite bread buns but I’ve been snacking on them.”

“Please tell me you left some.”

“Two.”

“How many did you have to start with?”

“…Ten.”

He slung his arm around her shoulder. “Man, fuck you.”

* * *

Lavellan introduced her to the inner circle. It went well enough. Nothing exploded.

But maybe he’d worried about the wrong thing.

Josephine leaned forward on her desk after the introductions, eyes glimmering. “Do you have any embarrassing stories about the Inquisitor?”

Lavellan squawked, Ellana grinned.

“Oh I have so many,” she said.

“Excellent!”

Lavellan grabbed the back of her robe and dragged her away. “Look at the time, we have to go.”

Ellana cupped her hand around her mouth. “I’ll tell you all of it later,” she mock-whispered.

He shut the door to Josephine’s office and dragged a laughing Ellana back to his quarters so they could speak in privacy.

“I like Josephine,” said Ellana.

“You only spoke to each other for about thirty seconds.”

“So? Clearly she has her priorities straight.”

They entered the door leading to the Keep and he pointed at the flights of stairs. “Less talking, more climbing.”

Ellana’s smile dropped. “Are they trying to kill you?”

“Probably.” He shrugged and clapped her back. “Or they’re trying to keep me fit! It’s exercise, hop to it!”

She complained the whole way up. Once they reached the top, she was huffed and trying valiantly to hide it. Lavellan just opened his quarter’s door, still smiling, and gestured her in. She entered, then paused at the sight before her, face falling. Lavellan bit back a smile.

“Why are there more stairs?” she shrieked.

“Just a tiny bit.”

“Who puts stairs in their bedroom? Shems!”

“Actually, this fortress is ancient elven. Fen’Harel’s, as a matter of fact.”

Ellana let out an irritated noise and stomped up the stairs. “I’m going to push the Dread Wolf down a flight of stairs. See how he likes it.”

“I think I did actually threaten to push him down the stairs once,” he mused and followed her up the stairs in a calmer manner.

“You should have gone through with it,” she muttered, but her complaints were cut off once she reached the top of the stairs. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Sweet Sylaise, this is where you _sleep_?”

“Massive, isn’t it?” Lavellan eyed the large wall by the upper ledge. Solas had already spread the rough underlayer of plaster yesterday, his supplies and scaffolding tucked away to the side of the upper walkway. Lavellan had initially just wanted the wall along his bed painted because that upper wall was too much work but Solas had insisted and refused any extra payment Lavellan had offered.

_“The time you dedicate towards teaching me is more than enough.”_

_“You’re being ridiculous.”_

_“I treasure your company more than gold.”_

He pursed his lips, biting back a smile.

“It seems a bit… lonely.” She wandered the room and frowned at the Dalish blanket on his bed, ran her fingers over it. “I don’t think I know this pattern.”

“Clan Venalin,” he said. “They’ve settled in the Dales for now.”

She fluttered over his bookshelves in the corner and pulled out a grimoire. It was one of the rare books he’d procured on ancient elven magic, gifted to him by Morrigan since she had two copies. Somehow. He didn’t ask how she’d come across two. Ellana’s eyes turned starry as she flipped through the pages.

“Yes, you can borrow it,” he said, already anticipating her next question. “Say ‘thank you, Mahanon.’”

“Fuck off,” she laughed and tucked it back into the shelf, patting it. “I’ll look at it later.”

Ellana paused, mirth fading.

Her expression turned sombre as she faced him. “Hanon, we need to talk. About… everything. Your situation, it’s—” She shook her head. “Please clear a few things up. You were so panicked that night that I wasn’t sure what to make of anything.”

Lavellan rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. Yeah, he’d been a mess that night.

“I was supposed to be dead,” he muttered.

Ellana sat on the edge of his bed and patted the spot beside her. “From the beginning,” she said.

He hesitated, but he sat. The beginning? Which beginning?

“You might not like what you hear,” he warned. “The truth about the elves… It isn’t pretty.”

“It’s the truth. I want to hear it.”

Lavellan fiddled with the end of his scarf, tried to sort out the mess of his thoughts. 

He sighed.

And he talked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellana has arrived!


	54. Those fallen locks

_and strands of truth—_

* * *

Telling Ellana the truth was both distressing and liberating. The thoughts tangled in his head, and the words stuck in his throat, but she waited for him without urgency. He expected her to look at him as if he’d grown two heads, but again, she listened without judgement. The only times she interrupted were for clarifications.

Lavellan didn’t reveal Fen’Harel’s true identity.

By the end of his explanations, it was late into the night and they had huddled under the Dalish blanket, lit only by the dim candlelight, dead silence on her end while he wrung his fingers. He shot her an uncertain glance.

“Shit,” she whispered.

He laughed, but it was weak. “I know.”

“And you have no idea how… How you went from being Elvhen to Dalish— Holy shit, Hanon, you were Elvhen. I—” She stared wide-eyed at the blanket. “I don’t—” Ellana rubbed her face and cursed softly once more.

In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have revealed so much in such a short amount of time.

“I’m going to need a few days to let this all sink in,” she said.

“Make it weeks. Even months. I’m still dealing with it myself.” He clutched the blanket close. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising, Hanon. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

It was terrible of him to offload all of this onto her, but some part of him breathed easier at having some of the weight lifted, at being able to tell somebody who he was.

“You believe me?” he asked. “It does sound far-fetched.”

“Of course I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

She scooted closer to him and they stayed in the quiet for a while.

“Can I see it?” she asked, breaking the silence. “The Anchor?”

He placed his hand palm-up in her hands and lit it, the green light awash and rippling over their faces. It was like holding a small, dying star. Ellana traced careful fingers over the lines of his palm.

“This is killing you,” she said, bitter and sullen.

“Eventually.”

“Hanon, your lack of worry about that is scaring me. If you didn’t have the Inquisition, if you didn’t have this insane mission and goal, would you just… let it kill you?”

He fell silent. Ellana gently squeezed her hand around his wrist.

“A lot of people have been telling me to live with them instead of dying for them,” he murmured.

“You just direct me to these people so I can give them a fruit basket or something.”

Lavellan snorted softly to himself. 

“But you’re still not really living for yourself.”

He shrugged. “No, but for now, just… Live for others, right? Then, maybe, one day… One day I can do that for myself.”

Ellana rested her head against his shoulder. “Okay,” she whispered.

For a while, they stared at the Anchor’s flickering light, just listening to each other breathe, but Ellana broke the silence again. She never did like the silence. It had annoyed him to no end when they were living together.

 _“Can we_ please _have peace and quiet?” he griped._

_“No, shut up, I’m talking.”_

_Lavellan groaned._

He smiled faintly at the memory.

“I feel it,” she said. “The Veil is strange around the Anchor. Weaker, but more malleable.”

“Well, it _is_ stemming from Fen’Harel’s power, and he’s the one who made the Veil.”

She frowned at him. “Who is he? You never did tell me. Have you introduced us already?”

He kept quiet. She huffed out a soft, disbelieving breath.

“I can’t believe this. You’re protecting him? After all he’s done?”

“I’m not protecting him,” he said. “I’m protecting _you_.”

“How? By keeping me in the dark? By making sure I don’t know who to trust in your gods-forsaken fortress? Where I’ll constantly watch my words and actions because I don’t want to endanger _you_ by accidentally revealing that you know who he is?” She rubbed her face. “Hanon, you’re not doing me any favours by not telling me.”

He grimaced, closed his hand and dimmed the light further, the glow barely slipping past the cracks in his fingers. Still, he said nothing.

“Don’t lie, Hanon,” she pleaded. “Not to me. You still care for him. You’re protecting him.”

“Protecting is a little extreme,” he said. “It’s just… not my truth to share. I’m not stopping you from finding out, but you won’t be hearing it from me. Just be careful about it. What I _can_ do is give you the names and faces of his agents. They’re the ones you really need to look out for. I’ve been compiling a list of his agents since Haven.” He could do it under the guise of giving her a tour of Skyhold. 

She stared at him, her eyes more amber than gold. Just like their mother’s eyes.

“You’ve always been a good liar,” she said. “And you’re a master at it when it comes to yourself.”

Lavellan opened his mouth in protest. “That’s not—”

“Go on, I love being proven right.” She smiled.

“You’re annoying. Go home.”

“I am. I’m with my family so I’m home now.”

Lavellan shut his mouth and looked away with a soft huff.

She laughed. “Softie.”

The Anchor’s light faded and they were doused back in candlelight. He wrapped the blankets tighter around them both and Ellana wiggled her cold toes against his feet. 

“He wasn’t just a friend, was he?” she asked.

He smiled grimly. “The Dread Wolf took me.”

“Has he taken you again?”

To that, he gave no answer.

* * *

Even though they’d prepared a room for her, she still somehow found a way to scatter her belongings around his room like the heathen she was. She’d always barge in to do some research while he was doing paperwork.

Still, he couldn’t help but smile at the books littering the space and Solas’ painting supplies arrayed along the upper ledge. He could forgive the mess this time. It made the space feel less empty. Less lonely. Some afternoons, Solas would join them and work on the mural (he’d cloaked it with magic because he wanted to surprise Lavellan, apparently).

It was another such afternoon, but he’d taken a momentary break from his paperwork so he could sit on the floor with Ellana and comb her hair.

“Have you even touched the comb since I left?” he asked.

“I was _busy_! You think I had time to comb my hair when— _Ow_!”

“Hold still!” The comb caught. He couldn’t yank it out. “Fuck’s sake, Lana. Just cut your hair if you’re going to let it get tangled like this.”

“No, I like it long.”

“Then comb—” _yank_ — “it!” He freed the comb and she squawked, clutching at the sore spot of her head. 

Solas shot them a quick, amused glance. Lavellan ran the comb through her hair once more and sighed in relief when it didn’t catch.

She turned and gave him a pleading pout. “Now braid my hair the way mae did it.”

“Do it yourself.”

“You know I suck at it and then you’ll just get annoyed and redo it yourself.” She shrugged. “Save yourself the effort.”

Lavellan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Turn,” he said morosely and she beamed.

Ellana returned to her reading while Lavellan started the braid that he hadn’t done in three years. Not after he’d cut his hair.

He missed that routine of braiding his hair. It had been a morning and evening ritual, bookending the days. In the mornings, it was a quiet moment to himself, the first accomplishment of the day. At night, he’d undo it before bed, a way to tell himself that it was time to unwind.

Lavellan glanced at Solas. Back then, Solas had sometimes watched Lavellan braid his hair in silence, or done it for him once Lavellan had shown him how to.

It took Lavellan a while to recall the process, hesitating every now and again. Ellana noticed.

“You never did tell me why you cut your hair,” she murmured.

His hands stilled.

_The stump of his left arm throbbed with phantom pains. He gritted his teeth as he tried to do the braid himself, held locks of his hair between his lips to keep them in place, but it wasn’t the same. The braid would end up too loose, or the tiers would be uneven. His right arm was getting sore._

_Frustration pricked at his eyes, built behind his teeth._

_“Just— Fucking—” He tugged at it._

_If Solas were here—_

_“He isn’t,” he snapped at himself. Solas wasn’t here, he was gone, and Lavellan’s_ fucking hair _wasn’t cooperating, and his arm didn’t feel right, and nothing felt right. Nothing. Everything had gone to shit; he couldn’t fix his own stupid hair. Everything was wrong._

_The ache in his arm burned. Both arms. Different kinds of burns._

_The ghosts of caring fingers threaded through his hair along with the memories of gentle touches and soft humming in his ears._

_Lavellan screamed._

_He pulled his hair and kicked the chair he’d been sitting on, screamed as he threw the brush at the mirror and cracked it. Screamed as he knocked aside everything atop the vanity. Screamed as he reached into the drawers and grabbed the scissors and attacked his hair with it and stared at his broken reflection, locks of his hair scattering around him._

_His hair fell uneven around his face._

_Lavellan panted, his ugly reflection snarling at him._

_He screamed again._

_Then sobbed._

_He fell to his knees, stabbing the scissors into the carpet, vision blurry._

_Sera came into the room. She silently eased the scissors away from his hand and fixed his hair for him. Vivienne arrived somewhat later. She cleaned the mess he’d made and helped with his hair, softly murmuring to Sera which parts looked uneven so she could cut it. That was the first time he’d seen them work together without going at each other’s throats._

_The sounds of snipping filled the silence._

_Later, he saw the cropped cut of his hair and felt even emptier._

_The tears he’d shed then had been quiet and cold._

“I had a crisis,” he said and resumed braiding. Solas stopped painting and sent him a curious glance. Ellana didn’t ask further.

It was silly, perhaps, to have cried over losing his hair, but it had felt like saying goodbye. Goodbye to who he’d been. Goodbye to the happier times, the happier him. His days had felt empty. 

Sometimes over the following years, the ghost of a lover and his careful fingers undoing the braid would return and throw Lavellan into another fit of rage and loss.

He’d tried to grow his hair after, but a close encounter with an assassin had snipped it short again. It was longer now, but still not long enough for a braid. 

He finished arranging Ellana’s hair. A two-tiered plait wrapped around each side of the head and joined into a long, central braid. He reached for his own hair and took the hair tie out to secure it.

“It’s kind of weird,” said Ellana.

“What is?” he asked.

“The fact that your room is— _was_ ,” she said with an irritating smidge of smugness, “so neat. You’ve been in this room for a while, but it doesn’t feel that personalised. Well, except for the Dalish blankets, but those were new additions.”

“You know how I feel about a messy space. Our aravel was a nightmare because of you.”

He finished tying her hair. She felt it, then turned to grin at him.

“It wasn’t that bad. You were just anal about those things.” She swept her arm at the room. “Look at this! Clutter makes things feel lived-in!”

“My _clutter_ is neat, is all. I don’t leave things on the floor and bed like you do.”

“He even dates all his paperwork,” Solas piped up from above them.

“What— That’s just basic record-keeping etiquette!” said Lavellan.

Ellana laughed. “Alright,” she conceded. “Fine.”

“How did you two ever manage to cohabit the same aravel?” asked Solas.

She groaned. “Get this, he _labelled_ the clutter.” She mimicked his voice. “ _Lana, I said the corner clutter is for hunting gear, your staff goes in the study pile with the rest of your books!_ ”

“I don’t talk like that.”

“ _Lana, why is your clutter in_ my _corner of the aravel?_ ”

Solas snorted to himself.

Lavellan threw his arms up. “We had a system and you kept breaking it.”

“Anal bastard.”

“Eat shit.”

Lavellan tugged on her braid and she squawked. She hit his toes. He hissed and hopped back to his desk so he could get back to his paperwork and only felt mildly huffed when he wrote the date. So what? If everything around him was going to shit, at least his paperwork was dated and his room was relatively tidy. Pre-Ellana, anyway.

They worked in blissful quiet for a while before Ellana cursed at her book.

“Finally realised I was right all along?” he asked, not looking up from writing.

“The sun would grow cold first,” she said. “I’m reading about how to mask your presence in the Fade while dreaming, but all of the methods I’ve read about would hide me from _all_ the denizens of the Fade. Can’t I… fine tune it?”

Lavellan stopped. “Why…?” Though he already had an idea.

Her silence proved his suspicions.

“Lana—”

She groaned. “Piss, you’ve already got _that_ tone. Look, hear me out. A spirit of Knowledge, right? If I can just mask my presence from demons, but not spirits…”

“The books you have accumulated are Circle-regulated,” said Solas from upstairs. “Naturally, they will not disclose the method of dreaming you seek.”

Ellana perked. “So the method I’m looking for _does_ exist?”

“Of course,” he said. “Most things are possible.”

“Solas, don’t encourage her.”

Solas chuckled and placed his brush down, faced them and leaned his elbows on the railing. Crushed pigments once again stained his hands.

“But your brother’s apprehension is founded,” he said. “Some demons are clever, able to masquerade as a seemingly harmless spirit. Such methods are employed by a number of demons, namely, Envy, Guile, and Pride.” Lavellan’s gaze flicked towards him. _Able to masquerade as a seemingly harmless spirit indeed._ He’d been Wisdom, and Wisdom could become Pride. Which was he now?

Not a slide, but a space, Cole had said. What did that mean? That he was capable of either? Both yet neither?

“Why do you seek Knowledge?” asked Solas.

“Why does anyone seek knowledge?” Ellana fired back.

“Do evasive answers run in the family?”

“I learned from Hanon.”

Lavellan snorted. “Don’t go airing my secrets out.”

She fiddled with her braid. “Hanon, do you own unregulated books about this?”

“You’ve unearthed the library,” said Lavellan. “And my shelves.”

She faked gagging. “You have books on _politics_.”

Ah yes, those had been placed there by Josephine and Leliana, some by Vivienne. The rest were about Dalish lore and Elvhenan. Some were works of fiction. There was a poetry collection in there somewhere, given to him by Dorian. A book about trees from Sera and Varric as a joke. Inquisi _tree_. Assholes.

“They’re riveting,” he teased. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Would you like to hear about Fereldan arlings?”

“I’d rather eat what Solas is painting with.”

“Please refrain,” said Solas. “Although, despite the prohibition on consuming my crafting supplies, you are free to borrow a few of my books. Most of them are titles outside of Circle regulation, if not all. I caught Enchanter Vivienne sneering at one of them, which is a good sign that I have a worthwhile book in my possession.”

Lavellan sighed.

“Oh, don’t mind if I take a look, thank you,” said Ellana.

“On one condition,” said Lavellan. “You do it under Solas’ supervision. If he says yes, that is.”

Ellana glanced at Solas and hesitated.

Solas tilted his head. “I can spare some time, although most of our lessons will have to be done in dreams.”

“The business of dreams is best conducted in dreams, got it.”

Lavellan glanced between the two of them with an uneasy pull to his lips. Some part of him screamed that it wasn’t wise to let the Dread Wolf so close to his sister, but he wasn’t sure what he was more worried about: that Ellana would figure Solas out, or that Solas would figure Ellana out, and by extension, Lavellan.

But he’d take that risk if it meant keeping her safe.

Maybe he was babying her too much. Lavellan chewed on his lip. He just didn’t want to lose her again. Not after he’d managed to save her and the clan.

“It is somewhat difficult,” said Solas as he turned back to his painting, “but you seem to be an accomplished mage, judging from the stories I’ve heard from the Inquisitor.”

“Really?” asked Ellana, shooting Lavellan a suspicious look. “What kind of stories?”

“From the top of my head, he says you’ve studied binding rituals for spirits, and that you know how to disrupt it.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, tone staying even, but her expression shifted into astonished disbelief. Ellana emphatically pointed at Lavellan and mimed snapping his neck.

 _Sorry_ , Lavellan mouthed with a grimace.

She threw her arms up. _I don’t know how to do that,_ she mouthed back, panic seeping into her disbelief. Solas continued painting, unaware of their little crisis.

Someone knocked.

Ellana rubbed her face. “I got it,” she said and disappeared down the stairs. The door opened. “Oh, hello!” he heard her say.

“Good afternoon, is the Inquisitor inside? Sister Nightingale said he was in his quarters. I apologise for the intrusion.”

“Who is it?” Lavellan asked and stood.

“It’s Cillian, Inquisitor.”

Cillian? Lavellan had placed him in charge of figuring out the glyphs in the Exalted Plains. Lavellan swallowed the uneasy knot in his throat.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and gestured Cillian in.

“Come in,” he said. “Is this about the glyphs?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Cillian hailed from Clan Ralaferin, one of the most respected clans, up there with Clan Lavellan in terms of collected lore. He’d remained loyal after the revelation of Fen’Harel, so Lavellan trusted him. 

Lavellan cleared his table so Cillian could place the sketches of the glyphs above it. They crowded around the table.

“What have you found?” asked Lavellan.

“These glyphs predate the ruins you have found them in,” said Cillian, tapping one of the sketches. “Likely transferred onto the stone from an older edifice. It could date back to Elvhenan, or even earlier. The connections you’ve provided me with has allowed me to translate the glyphs.”

He unrolled an annotated map of Thedas over the glyphs, an area marked and circled near the Waking Sea.

“They were directions,” said Cillian.

“Where to?” asked Lavellan, the knot of unease threading through his chest.

Cillian looked up at him.

“The Lost Temple of Dirthamen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET'S GOOOOOOOO. TEMPLE TIME. It's going to be so relaxing, so lovely, a wonderful vacation. Everything will be fine :)


	55. He's here

_he's here._

* * *

Dirthamen’s Temple was somewhere in the forests of Val Chevin. They made good time on the Imperial Highway, cut across the Heartlands, and crossed the river into the dense forest near Val Foret where they made camp.

Cassandra folded first for the night, followed by Solas, which left Lavellan with Cole and Ellana.

Vergala had become more subdued as they neared Val Chevin.

“Everything alright?” he asked her. She cawed. Even that was subdued. Or no, not subdued.

Afraid.

“Moving, missing, then missed,” said Cole. “Made to stay. We’re getting closer. So long as she stays, return is possible, but then the sky was held back. Blood clots.”

Ellana fixed Cole a quizzical look. Vergala settled onto his lap and nudged her head against his stomach. He stroked her head with a frown.

“She doesn’t want to hear about it anymore,” murmured Cole. “Sorry.”

She squawked.

“Okay. I’ll stop.”

Lavellan held her close and said nothing else. He examined his surroundings, the air filled with a revelation he could almost taste, yet still painfully out of reach.

“I think I’ll go sleep,” said Lavellan and stood, cradling Vergala. “Cole, are you alright to keep watch?”

“I don’t need sleep. Yes.”

Vergala flew and perched herself on a nearby tree. Lavellan entered the dim tent and settled into a bedroll, leaving the other one for Ellana.

His dreams were fitful. Not nightmares. Just… agitated.

It was living darkness, and it was warm. There was a welcome pressure on his chest, around him. A voice whispered by his ear.

Warm, steady, keepingkept him together. Lavellan nestled into it.

_"Welcome back.”_

Lavellan opened his eyes, his head clear. No exhaustion. He was calm, alert, focused.

_Welcome back._

He sat up. Ellana was still asleep.

Lavellan left the tent, found Cole sitting by the long-dead fire, using the coals to draw over the stones. Cole set the coal down and looked up at his arrival. Lavellan took in his surroundings again, the air crisp in his lungs, brushing over his skin like a solid, guiding thing. It was a quiet dawn, but the sky was anything but. The colours were violent.

“I heard him,” said Lavellan.

He just wasn’t sure if the dream was building off repressed memories or if there was something about the area that had triggered it. It had been the same in Ghilan’nain’s Grove, though his dream there had been clearer.

“The echoes tangle with your echoes, knot it into a real thing,” said Cole.

“My head is clear,” Lavellan said because that felt monumental. He hadn’t realised his head had been foggy at all. Had it been foggy his entire life? “I feel awake.”

The pressure on his chest was gone, but the ghost of it lingered.

Cole went back to marking the stones with the coal. “When you remember, what will you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Body and blood breathing shadows of another name. You have yours and he has his. When you learn yours, you learn his, because you wrote each other into the spaces where your darkness meets.”

Lavellan ran a hand through his hair. Usually he’d be unnerved by Cole’s comments, but the focus and clarity that had descended over him just made him nod and accept it. It made no sense, yet it did. Cole’s words were never meant to be understood as words, they had to be understood as what they were underneath.

Cole stared up at him. “You’re hearing me better.”

“Underneath,” said Lavellan. “But still not quite.” He sat on a log and stared down at his hands. The edges of him felt defined.

He watched the violent sunrise, its light scattering across the foliage of the forest trees. They looked like splatters of blood.

“Welcome back,” Lavellan said to himself.

* * *

Lavellan feared they would get lost once they entered the forests of Val Chevin, but the guiding feel of the wind pulled him along the correct path.

Something changed in the air as they neared the temple’s estimated position. It was thick and ancient and unwelcoming. Apparently. At least, that was how everybody talked about and acted around it.

But to him, it felt like coming home.

They alighted their horses upon encountering the scattered remnants of elven architecture. Cole walked beside him.

“It calls you home, but it’s not,” said Cole. “Be careful. It’s angry.”

They followed the trail of ruins. The path had been cleared.

“Someone’s been here,” Lavellan said.

“Possibly the Venatori,” said Cassandra.

“Or treasure hunters,” said Solas. “In which case, assume them dead.”

Lavellan frowned at him. “How come?”

Solas cast the sky an uneasy look. “Either they encountered the Venatori, or they were swallowed by Dirthamen’s temple. His court is not known for being welcoming.”

No, it wasn't. The entire process of finding the temple in the first place had been so convoluted, whose idea was that?

> _“Scatter the glyphs,” I say._
> 
> _Dirthamen looks up at me, intrigued. “Oh? Is it not complicated enough?”_
> 
> _“If they’re truly devoted to you, they’ll prove their cunning. You’ll know whoever reached your temple is dedicated.”_

Lavellan scowled. Oh.

“Asshole,” he muttered at himself.

Night had fallen by the time they’d reached the temple, and Lavellan sucked in a breath at its dilapidated state. Ivy had overcome the walls and most of the roof and walls had collapsed.

This used to be grand.

A tremor of irritation plucked at him for the neglect, but he shook it off. It wasn’t as if it had been neglected on purpose. Dirthamen had possessed one of the most loyal courts.

To the point of death.

How did he know that?

His head pulsed.

The scene flickered — night turned to day. The dilapidated temple was restored to its former glory, mighty stones gleaming in the sunlight as the temple’s expansive network dominated and yet hid within the forest. Songs of worship echoed in his ears.

He let out a shuddering breath. Familiar sight. He’d walked this path a thousand times.

No, not walked.

He eyed the skies.

He’d flown.

Something stifling wrapped around his heart.

His head pulsed again, and the grand, gleaming temple became dilapidated once more. The songs of worship faded. Day faded to star-strung night.

A shadow passed through him like a ghost, took his breath as it did, solidifying in front of him as the raven-cloaked figure. It rose from the smoke and shadows, ghostly, a half-forgotten memory as they walked ahead. They tipped their head, a slight movement. An almost-glance back. _Follow me_.

Lavellan stopped walking, his apprehension threading with his anticipation. 

Where would they lead him, this time? 

“Inquisitor?” asked Cassandra at his sudden halt.

“Just admiring the scenery,” he lied.

The raven-cloaked figure started walking.

“Let’s go,” said Lavellan.

Once they reached the temple’s entrance, the cloaked figure disappeared. A hole had been blasted through the large doors, forcefully breached.

Lavellan glowered, a displeased noise escaping him.

Solas placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and Lavellan rubbed his face and took a deep breath.

Vergala perched on Lavellan’s shoulder and they entered. The first chamber they encountered was dim and slightly flooded, lit only by Ellana and Solas’ magic.

“Found the treasure hunters,” said Ellana, prodding the camping supplies in a corner with her staff. “At least, their gear.”

Lavellan picked up a journal that had been left behind with the supplies, thankfully not waterlogged, and flipped through the pages. It was a chronicle of an Orlesian Archivist’s search for—

 _Dirthamen’s Wisdom_.

A small part of him reared its head back and cackled.

 _Good luck_ , it taunted.

He realised he _was_ laughing when Ellana asked, “What’s funny?”

Lavellan stopped. “Uh, nothing, just— Nothing.”

Ellana took the journal from him and read it, then shot him a look as if he was mad. After all, the journal was detailing the story of how the temple’s priesthood had mutilated their High Priest. The writer of the journal seemed to have been going mad. Lavellan probably looked like an asshole now.

“There’s nothing remotely funny about this,” said Ellana.

“It is gruesome,” agreed Cassandra after she read it. “What kind of followers would act against their High Priest?”

“Dirthamen’s,” muttered Solas. The comment and the distaste in it made an irrational surge of ire press at Lavellan, but he swallowed it down.

“They’re searching for an artefact called Dirthamen’s Wisdom. So are the Venatori, I presume,” said Lavellan. “Solas, heard of it before?” He cast back for any helpful memories but all he had were brief flashes of… something. Images? Silver? Ringing of metal. Smell of a battlefield. A voice, but not its words.

“I am not certain,” he said. “Dirthamen and his followers safeguarded their secrets well. What one claimed as truth, the other claimed false. Try as I might, it is difficult to glean their knowledge.”

“Trembling, trying to keep itself together,” said Cole. “Hurt, sorrow, fear, gathered in great gasping breaths. Crying, but… No answer.”

They proceeded, descended the short stairs into the water lapping around their ankles.

“Solas, are you wearing shoes,” said Lavellan.

“I am not.”

“How’s the water?” he teased.

His face pulled. “Survivable.”

They passed the low archway into a shadowed hall.

An echo of a memory. He’d walked through these very same halls, floors golden and glittering, stones dark and foreboding. Claustrophobic. Embracing—

> _Devotees pause as I pass through the temple. Hatred in their eyes. Some respect. Some fear. I can kill them with a flick of my wrist and they know it, so they keep quiet._
> 
> _“It’s him,” they whisper. “ Isha’belsal’in[1].”_
> 
> _“He has come to take our secrets.”_
> 
> _“Come to give us secrets.”_
> 
> _A collective of priests greets me._
> 
> _“Lord Dirthamen sends a message,” I say._
> 
> _“A secret?” one asks._
> 
> _“Secrets,” I clarify. “Set your preparations. Some of you may die.”_
> 
> _That sends a ripple of excitement through everyone. Secrets so important, so grand, that it may cause one to die, a grand secret that a body can scarce handle… Some of them can only hope to dream of being bestowed such an honour._
> 
> _And I am holding at least fifteen of those in my mind. It’s getting hard to focus._
> 
> _“Do hurry,” I say. “I have more duties to attend to.”_
> 
> _“We will prepare as long as we need,” a priest huffs back, puffs his chest out. He must be new. The older priests shake their heads._
> 
> _“Oh?” I take a step closer. “As long as you need? Well, it seems like you don’t need much time at all, capable as you are.” I raise my hand and clamp it around his head. His face ashens. “Be a dear and take this one off of me.”_
> 
> _Shadows swirl around my hand and the secrets flow into his mind._
> 
> _He screams._
> 
> _Crumples dead._
> 
> _I retake the secrets and turn to the other priests._
> 
> _“Continue,” I say, smiling._

Lavellan staggered and Ellana caught him, saved him from tripping into the water. Vergala started and flew, transferring to Cole’s shoulders.

“Hanon?” she asked, concerned.

The knowledge settled in his head and he recalled Kieran’s words, unbidden yet retained.

_“You hold smoke better than water.”_

Mythal had her Well of Sorrows.

Dirthamen’s Well of Sorrows was not a well, not a place, not an archive of passed knowledge gathered in one place. No, Dirthamen had safeguarded the secrets of the empire. Some ruinous, some mundane. To leave them all in one place was to court danger.

His Well of Sorrows had been his priesthood, as well as a few members of the El’amelan. Those who could weather it.

Ellana frowned at his extended silence.

“Are you alright?” Solas asked softly behind him. Lavellan straightened and eased their concerns with a smile.

“Yeah, I think I tripped over a loose tile,” he lied, meaning to continue the excuse, but stopped when his eyes fell on the statue at the end of the hallway where the path branched into two. His brows raised. Was that…?

Lavellan approached and it _was_. A statue of Fen’Harel. A glyph by its base.

“Veilfire please,” he said as he frowned at the statue, ran his hands over its flank. What was it doing here? They’d found one in Mythal’s temple, which was fair enough, but inside Dirthamen’s temple?

It was Solas who passed him the torch and their gaze met briefly, green dancing in Solas’ eyes, both their expressions carefully neutral. Lavellan turned and hovered the fire over the glyph.

It imparted the priesthood’s final words and oath. Whispering was around him, within him, plucking at a memory and reeling it to the forefront of his mind― 

> _“You disapprove,” says Dirthamen. “Of what Father did.”_
> 
> _“The Wolf threw his tantrum and reaped the consequences.”_
> 
> _“A response yet not an answer.”_
> 
> _“It is simply not my place to cast judgement upon your father.”._
> 
> _“Well it is mine.” He looks out his large window overlooking the spires and floating isles of Arlathan. “The harsher the disciplining of the child, the higher the likelihood of the child acting out.”_
> 
> _“Acting out,” I say in slight disbelief. Removing the vallaslin is more than_ acting out _._
> 
> _“If Father had been calmer…” He sighs. “I am glad I inherited my mother’s temperament.”_
> 
> _“Do you know what you have also inherited from your mother?” I ask and he faces me, curious. “Your cunning.”_
> 
> _He eyes me. “Something you would like to say, my raven?”_
> 
> _“That would depend on the probability of me being able to keep my tongue after.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen stays quiet. Then he smiles. “Go on.”_
> 
> _“Your mother wanted the Wolf to break.”_
> 
> _He digests this. No sign of anger. Nothing but curiosity shifting in his aura, like a flutter of fabric._
> 
> _“I would be careful,” Dirthamen says slowly, “about these thoughts.”_
> 
> _“I am,” I say. “I merely took a calculated risk this time. Do I get to keep my tongue?”_
> 
> _He tilts his head. “Your words do not leave this room.”_
> 
> _I bow my head. “Vin, ma Venuralas.”_

Lavellan returned to himself, blinking at the glyph, then at the wolf statue. He frowned. Intriguing. He _should_ have lost his tongue after insinuating something like that. Just how much had Dirthamen let him get away with?

The Well flooded gently in his head. Coaxed him. Towards what?

“The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long,” said Solas. “They wish to be known.”

“Secrets stale in the silence,” said Cole. “I don’t like it here.”

“Oh good, I thought it was just me,” sighed Ellana.

The sounds of splashing water echoed in the space. Cassandra unsheathed her sword.

“Undead!” she cried.

He grumbled, drawing his daggers. Could he please just exist for five minutes without something trying to kill him?

* * *

Ellana raised her hand. “I’d just like to express my extreme distaste and disapproval of putting the body parts of a dead priest back together.”

“Noted,” said Lavellan as he took the urn housing one of the High Priest’s desiccated organs and dumped it on Ellana.

“And ignored?” She shoved it in her pack.

“Obviously. I have a feeling that assembling the Highest One will give answers as to what Dirthamen’s Wisdom is. Those are ears, by the way.”

She pulled a face. “First a tongue, now ears. Great. It’s like the world’s worst game of make-a-friend. If one of them’s his dick, I’m out of here.”

“We should not linger,” said Cassandra. “Let us… _assemble_ the high priest back together, retrieve what we need, and leave.”

“I stepped on a mushroom,” said Solas flatly.

“Are you sure it’s a mushroom?” asked Ellana.

“I would like to believe it’s a mushroom.”

“You should really start packing shoes,” said Lavellan.

“Considering your tendency to explore unsavoury locations, yes, I suppose I should start.”

Lavellan picked up the Veilfire torch that had fallen during their fight with a few undead and made a face as water trickled out of it. His pants were soaked.

A bell chimed in his head. Lavellan turned, waving the Veilfire in the dark as he looked for the source of the sound. He’d heard it before. In the Exalted Plains.

His eyes widened. It had led to a glyph containing memories.

Lavellan hurried towards the noise, Ellana’s exclamation faint in his ears and the resulting splash of water behind him as his companions followed even fainter.

There. Against the wall.

Lavellan hovered the Veilfire above the glyph. It clamped around his head, firm—

> _“You say you wish to serve Lord Dirthamen?” Her face is severe even though it is youthful, and there are shadows hissing around her ankles._
> 
> _My breath catches. I nod._
> 
> _“You are not fit to serve him,” she says._
> 
> _“I know,” I say._
> 
> _She blinks, a momentary flicker of surprise, but her face smooths into that severe expression again. Something tells me I’ll be seeing it often._
> 
> _“You’re here to make me fit,” I continue. “I know. I wasn’t born yesterday.”_
> 
> _“No, merely five days ago.” She scoffs. “You are wasting your time and his. It was a mistake for you to have crossed because you do not have the capacity to serve, and you never will.”_
> 
> _I stare at her, steady, her words giving rise to a solid emotion I can’t name, pulling at my teeth. “That’s your job, isn’t it? If you can’t make me fit, then you’re the one wasting your time. And mine.”_
> 
> _“Do you think you’re so clever, mouthing off like this?”_
> 
> _“I think I have a point. And I think I’m bored of this. Train me, or not. If not, I’ll find other ways.”_
> 
> _She stares. I stare back._
> 
> _She tilts her head. It’s barely a movement, my only indication being the sway of the strand of plaited hair behind her ear._
> 
> _“I am Thalamya,” she says. “I will be training you along with prospective elves wishing to serve Lord Dirthamen as his agent in the future. We will be heading to an island north of Arlathan, and there we will remain for a century.”_
> 
> _My eyes widen. “What? I thought— That I’d still see him.”_
> 
> _“Do you think Lord Dirthamen has the time to babysit? You are unworthy to see him as you are now. It was gracious of him to have even visited you after your crossing.”_
> 
> _I bristle. “I shapeshifted for him then. He was pleased.”_
> 
> _“If you wish to serve, you cannot_ just _shapeshift.”_
> 
> _I want to bite her. “I_ know _—”_
> 
> _“You do not,” she cuts off. “We must train you to stop speaking out of turn.”_
> 
> _“A century—”_
> 
> _“If you are exceptional, perhaps you will be allowed to see him again and join the ranks of his agents. But for now, stop your mouthing off. You can barely control your own emotions and temper. How do you expect to serve him?”_
> 
> _I shut my mouth but my face feels flushed. Red. This feeling is rolling and writhing and_ red.
> 
> _Very well. I’ll make myself so exceptional that I shorten the time it takes to return to his side._

More whispers from this temple’s priesthood fluttered in his ears, but they were secondary to the memory and the emotions that it had contained. He licked his teeth. He tasted the echoes of frustration and ire and impatience.

Yes, Thalamya. Faint memories of stern eyes, strict voice, the disapproving and disappointed pull to her mouth.

His lips twitched. What was it with him ending up with cranky mentors? The old Warleader, Hanathir, had been the same. Always barking at him, the old sod. May the bastard rest in peace.

“Well that’s unnerving,” said Ellana behind him, squinting at the glyph, had only heard the whispers.

Solas turned his head and walked away. Lavellan watched him go.

_“Dirthamen had betrayed us.”_

But Dirthamen had loved Solas, had thought of him as his brother. He’d even paid homage to Solas here. What happened? Lavellan looked back at the glyph.

“I need to find the rest,” Lavellan whispered.

Ellana looked back at him with a curious frown, but she faltered at whatever expression he was wearing.

“He’s loud here,” said Cole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Settle in folks. This place is going to be memory-heavy.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Isha'belsal'in:** The Man of Many Faces[⇧]


	56. Hunger

_can you feel it gnawing?_

* * *

They entered the temple’s main sanctuary and clambered over the roots of the large trees that had made their home here. Their canopies stretched over patches of where the roof used to be. Moonlight flooded into the area, glimmering like chains of diamonds over the water sloshing around their ankles.

Vergala took flight and circled the skies instead. Eager to get away from this place.

They fought their way through more undead, then entered the temple’s northern wing.

A ringing in his head.

Lavellan shot Ellana a subtle, meaningful look. She glanced around, and her gaze fell on a mural by the wall.

“Hey Solas, what’s this?” she asked and approached the mural, successfully distracting Solas. Cassandra followed them in curiosity. Lavellan made a mental note to get Ellana a tray of honeyed bread when they return to Skyhold.

He followed the ringing and approached the glyph by the wall. Cole stood beside him.

“Thick in your lungs,” said Cole. “Be careful.”

“Great,” he grumbled.

He lit the glyph and almost gasped at the press of it—

> _My magic flares, spills, and I try to call it back to myself, my brows scrunching in concentration. It’s difficult, but I manage it. It coils itself back up, like a spool of thread resting within my being, but it stays fitful._
> 
> _The more I grow in power, the less I am in control. An irritating paradox._
> 
> _The sound of footsteps approached behind me, so soft it would elude most people’s hearing. Not mine._
> 
> _I open my eyes and raise my head. The grass around me is singed. I bite my inner cheek in frustration._
> 
> _“I know,” I say, my voice and expression not betraying any emotion. As I’ve learned. “It’s still hard. It’s getting harder.”_
> 
> _Thalamya stands beside me, looking out at the sea stretching in the distance. The hillside I’d retreated to is littered with patches of burnt grass from my meditation. My attempts, anyway. Attempts to pull the force of my magic back, stop it from being so… explosive._
> 
> _“It is your nature,” she says._
> 
> _“I know.”_
> 
> _“You embody one of the main forces of the Fade and the Beyond.”_
> 
> _“I know.”_
> 
> _“You know I dislike it when you say that.”_
> 
> _“Then stop telling me things I already know.”_
> 
> _Thalamya’s severe expression eases slightly. From her, that’s pretty much a smile._
> 
> _“It has been seven decades,” she says. “I never could train you out of being mouthy.”_
> 
> _“You tried.”_
> 
> _“Lord Dirthamen has asked for you.”_
> 
> _My heart jumps. “Oh?” I ask, voice staying calm._
> 
> _“You have a better handle on your emotions, at the very least,” she says. “Yes. A raven came today, bearing a message. He says he wants to see you.”_
> 
> _I pause. “Why?”_
> 
> _“I suppose you’d better go and find out.”_
> 
> _It has been seven decades and then some since I last saw Dirthamen. I was but a child then, and Dirthamen was still but a king._
> 
> _Now, he is a god._
> 
> _I wait in a small chamber within one of his temples, examining every detail of the room and cataloguing it. It’s more habit than anything. Part of my training — always know any room you are in, always be aware, so that you may never be caught off-guard._
> 
> _The tell-tale whisper of a weapon being unsheathed fills the silence._
> 
> _I turn, have a split second to register the rush of wind, the blur of a shape._
> 
> _A blade flashes. I draw mine._
> 
> _Our daggers lock, metal ringing, and I meet my assailant’s eyes. Violet. Everything within me stills._
> 
> _“Impressive,” says Dirthamen, retracting his dagger and sheathing it. The rings on his fingers catch the light as he does. I sheathe my dagger in return, mouth suddenly dry. He is lightly armoured today, dark hair now longer, almost reaching his hips._
> 
> _I fall to one knee and bow my head._
> 
> _“Ma Venuralas.”_
> 
> _“Rise.”_
> 
> _His voice is as I recall, warm and rich and honeyed. I rise. He smiles at me._
> 
> _“Hello.” Dirthamen greets me as if I’m an old friend. “I apologise for pulling you from your training so abruptly.”_
> 
> _I only nod, unsure of what to say._
> 
> _“I hope I did not tear you away from any close friends,” he says._
> 
> _“I won’t be missed.”_
> 
> _“Oh? Why is that?”_
> 
> _His stare is steady. I usually have no trouble maintaining eye contact. In fact, I use it to my advantage for intimidation, but Dirthamen makes it difficult. I feel as if the correct course of action is to look away, but is that disrespectful? Does that show weakness?_
> 
> _“Communication and cooperation were encouraged on the island,” I say. “They’re important skills, but competition still lingered. Envy was detrimental to performance.”_
> 
> _He tilts his head._ Go on _, it says._
> 
> _“Forming any meaningful connections was futile,” I continue. “Power plays were already prevalent among my peers. I navigated them just fine, but I was still greatly disliked.”_
> 
> _“How come?”_
> 
> _“Because I was better than them.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen regards me, face blank, aura hidden._
> 
> _“It’s no boast,” I say. “I am the best on that island, discounting our instructors, but I cannot ascertain how I will hold up against your agents. I will be at a severe disadvantage due to the disparity in experience. And I also have trouble controlling my magic. The output is strong, so is the precision, but not so in terms of restraint.”_
> 
> _He stays quiet, frowns slightly. There’s a certain weight to his silence, an expectation to be filled._
> 
> Keep going.
> 
> _“I know what I’m good at and what I’m not good at, and my control is admittedly poor. Why have you called me, ma Venuralas? I have about three decades of training left.”_
> 
> _His neutrality finally breaks as he smiles. I like it. It is subtle, soft, and gives his eyes a mischievous light. “Thalamya has reported that you have been an exceptional student.”_
> 
> _She has?_
> 
> _Dirthamen chuckles. “Is that so surprising?”_
> 
> _I frown. “Somewhat. I suppose I assumed she disapproves of me.”_
> 
> _“She does.”_
> 
> _“Oh.”_
> 
> _“But I believe the disapproval is more concerned with your personality than your skills.” He paces the room in measured strides, examining the mosaics on the wall. I don’t move, only follow him with my eyes. “She believes you are ready in all aspects.” He looks back at me over his shoulder. “Save for the issue with control.”_
> 
> _I drop my gaze. Is he disappointed? Is that why I’ve been called here?_
> 
> _“Show me.”_
> 
> _My gaze snaps up. His smile is gone, but there’s a glint in his eyes._
> 
> _“I may wreck the room,” I say._
> 
> _He looks at me, waiting._
> 
> _A beat passes. I soon murmur my assent and close my eyes, calling on that coil of magical power within me. It is the culmination of all that I am, a force that shapes the Fade into what I wish._
> 
> _And I unravel the spool._
> 
> _The surge of power fills me, swelling within my bones, flooding me until I feel as if I’m a walking storm. I force myself to breathe through it. My skin feels as if it will crack and I’ll disperse and fracture in the aftermath._
> 
> _My ears fill with a roar. It clouds my head, my senses._
> 
> _But Dirthamen’s voice cuts through it, clear, like a strike of lightning in the darkness of a thunderstorm._
> 
> _“Reel it in,” he says. I obey._
> 
> _My magic wishes to flare further, to slip through my fingers, but I grip harder than it’s slipping. I’m too aware of Dirthamen watching me. This is a test; it must be._
> 
> _It’s a slow process, like dragging a waterlogged carcass through a bog, but I manage it._
> 
> _I open my eyes, lightheaded, body heavy._
> 
> _The room’s braziers have been knocked off, mosaic tiles from the wall litter the cracked floor, singe marks radiate out from me, decorations have been knocked to the ground, and Dirthamen stands in the middle of the wreckage. I expect him to give me a pitying look. Maybe one of disapproval, distaste, disdain. It won’t be the first time and it won’t be the last._
> 
> _He releases an awed breath instead, regarding the destruction around us._
> 
> _Fixes that awe on me._
> 
> _“Beautiful,” he says._
> 
> _Warmth fills me._
> 
> _I want to raze a city for him._
> 
> _“Are you afraid of that power?” he asks._
> 
> _“I fear nothing,” I almost say, but I pause and make myself think. “I’m afraid of losing myself if I lose control of it,” I say instead. “It’s too much. It’s hard to hold, and it’s destructive.”_
> 
> _It gets terrible, some days. Sometimes my power surges to the point that I feel as if I will shatter, destroy myself along with everything around me._
> 
> _Dirthamen waves a hand, and I watch, my turn to be in awe, as he undoes my destruction. The tiles return to form their mosaics, the singe marks lift, the cracks in the ground mend, the decorations return to their rightful positions. I don’t even bother to hide my aura of surprise._
> 
> _He smiles. “I can undo whatever destruction you cause,” he says, “and I can stop you from destroying yourself.”_
> 
> _My eyes widen._
> 
> _“But it is true, you need to learn control.” He holds a hand to his chest and still manages to make a gesture of humility look regal. “I will teach you.”_
> 
> _I try not to gawk. “Ma Venuralas?”_
> 
> _“I have gone through the same struggle. My power would slip from my grasp, but I have learned how to control it. Now I never slip.” The hand over his heart drops. He regards me with unabashed curiosity. “But this will be a continuous struggle for you. You are Change. There is a limit to how much power you can amass before it proves calamitous for you. I will help you remain in that peak without falling into Entropy. I will not let you decay.”_
> 
> _I want to believe him._
> 
> _“You said it yourself,” I say. “This will be a continuous struggle. You’re asking to be stuck with me for eternity.” I smile self-deprecatingly. “Are you sure about that decision?”_
> 
> _He smiles back. “I’m sure.”_

Lavellan staggered. Cole caught and steadied him. The Veilfire torch almost slipped from Lavellan’s grasp.

He covered his face with his hand.

Even though it was just a memory, the echoes of his power’s surge and its subsequent retreat jarred him.

And Dirthamen…

Lavellan closed his eyes, breathed in the stale air. The Well of Sorrows rushed in his head, a soothing lap of waves against the shore. Dirthamen’s voice echoed in his thoughts.

_Beautiful._

Lavellan shook it off. Or tried to. He was usually successful, but this time, it clung on.

“Let’s go,” he croaked.

* * *

Lavellan knelt in the gross water so he could reach the low gate and pick the lock. They entered another smaller chamber. 

He approached the glyph by the wall.

> _“There is a spell,” I say, but stop._
> 
> _Dirthamen looks up from the letter he is writing and places his quill down. “Yes?”_
> 
> _I struggle for the right words. “You discovered blood magic.”_
> 
> _He smiles. “Indeed.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen was the eldest of Mythal and Elgar’nan, womb-born, though he has carried a spirit of Purpose since birth through to young adulthood, but Purpose later separated from him and formed Falon’Din._
> 
> _Point being, Dirthamen is one of the first to be born as a corporeal entity, and this corporeality has given him an affinity for blood magic. The consequence of practicing blood magic is that Dirthamen cannot follow Falon’Din far into the Beyond, as blood magic inhibits him, but it’s a small price to pay. In the hands of a skilled mage, blood magic’s volatility can be controlled, and its raw power can be harnessed._
> 
> _And this spell…_
> 
> _“Could you… bind me to you?” I ask, tentatively offering the idea. “If ever I can’t control myself and the other methods fail, it can be used as a last resort.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen leans back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table as he appraises me._
> 
> _“And forming such a bond will also allow me to lend you some of my power in return,” Dirthamen says slowly, considering._
> 
> _“I’m more focused on the restraining part of it,” I admit. “I think more power might not do me any good, anyway.”_
> 
> _His eyes shimmer. “It is fascinating how many chains you accept of your own accord.”_
> 
> _“So long as the chain leads back to you.”_
> 
> _The declaration strikes him silent, but I can’t discern what emotion is within his eyes and his aura betrays nothing, as always._
> 
> _“Loyal only to me,” he murmurs._
> 
> _“The thought pleases you.”_
> 
> _“It does.”_
> 
> _“You’re not very good at sharing.”_
> 
> _“You don't want to be shared.”_
> 
> _I quiet at that._
> 
> _“The binding?” I ask, instead of continuing that topic._
> 
> _Dirthamen hums. “I will,” he agrees. My shoulders slump in relief._
> 
> _“Thank you,” I say, some small weight lifting._

“Inquisitor?”

Lavellan jolted, looked over his shoulder at Cassandra who was standing by the small gate.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, his own voice sounding strange to his ears.

“I was asking if we should get going.” She frowned. “Are you unwell?”

“Unwell?” He licked his dry lips, feeling faintly disconnected. Solas was staring at him. Lavellan forced his coherency to return. “No. It’s fine. Let’s get going.” His vallaslin tingled on his chest.

No, wait. He had no vallaslin on his chest.

Lavellan pursed his lips and kept going. Ellana bumped his shoulder as they walked, and Lavellan could only give her a wan smile in return.

* * *

They entered the opposite wing of the main sanctuary and navigated the dim chambers, squeezing through archways and corridors. Lavellan’s undershirt was soaked and his ribs were throbbing from the Arcane Horror they’d faced earlier.

He followed the tolling in his head and arrived at a crypt.

The glyph glimmered on the space of wall between a row of niches meant to house mummified remains. They were empty.

“Hanon,” said Ellana, “my pack is heavy from dead priest organs. Even morbid curiosity can only take me so far.”

“You can give some to Solas.”

“My pack is full,” said Solas.

“Bullshit,” said Ellana. “Show me!”

While the two of them argued about who had to carry the organs, Lavellan passed the Veilfire over the glyph.

It reached for him, greedy, _hungry_ —

> _The actors hurriedly change their hair with magic, root to tip, altering colour and length and texture, and go back out at their cue._
> 
> _I slip away from backstage and return to one of the private booths with a clear view of the main arena. They’re currently re-enacting one of Andruil’s exploits. Illusions flicker across the stage._
> 
> _“Were you exploring?” asks Dirthamen. He has no servants attending to him, unlike his siblings in their own booths._
> 
> _“A little.” I hold up the pitcher of wine and platter of fruit I’m carrying. “While I was getting these.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen flicks his gaze coolly towards me. “I brought you here to watch with me, not attend to me.”_
> 
> _“I can do both,” I say. “And it’s not poisoned. I made sure of it. I’ll take the first sip if you’d like.”_
> 
> _He stares at me._
> 
> _I smile. “Ma Venuralas, I thought you were watching?”_
> 
> _Dirthamen returns his attention to the play. “What wine?”_
> 
> _“_ Adhal’gra _. Spiced.”_
> 
> _“Thank you for being concise. Sylaise goes on enough about soil and season and composition.”_
> 
> _“I’m afraid I don’t know much about wine, nor do I care to, admittedly.” I pour him a glass and take a quick sip to check for poison. “It’s just grapes. But angrier.”_
> 
> _His lips twitch. “I’ll tell that to Sylaise the next time she irritates to me. Angry grapes.”_
> 
> _“Wrathful grapes.” I can’t sense any poison within the wine. I wipe the rim with a cloth and give it to Dirthamen, then pluck a normal grape from the platter. “Here are non-wrathful grapes.”_
> 
> _He gives the grape an unimpressed look. “Do not feed me. I find it patronising.”_
> 
> _“Being fed?”_
> 
> _“I can feed myself.”_
> 
> _“It’s an act of service,” I say, biting back a smile, and offer him the platter instead. He takes a strawberry just to be contrary._
> 
> _We end up watching the play again. One of the actors changes their mask to denote a character shift._
> 
> _“Imagine if you could just change your face,” I muse. “Would be faster.”_
> 
> _“Difficult to learn and execute,” says Dirthamen. “But an intriguing idea.”_
> 
> _The play continues, but my thoughts wander. Shapeshifting is a difficult art, but my nature as Change has given me an instinctive grasp of it. Besides shifting into another creature, a branch of shapeshifting can also involve the alteration of the body’s structure, but the casting process for this is even more time-consuming than the former and requires extensive study. It isn’t an art pursued by many._
> 
> _What if I take that a step further? What if I can make it less time-consuming to cast? Instantaneous? Change faces as easily as an actor changes masks?_
> 
> _Dirthamen eyes me but says nothing._
> 
> _I have done it._
> 
> _After decades of research, finally._
> 
> _I stare at my reflection, at the different face looking back. My eyes remain the same, golden colour, but I can’t do anything about that since any change I apply to them wears off over time. An illusion will be simpler if I have to change them._
> 
> _My bones and muscles ache in the aftermath. I need to master this. Study different faces, catalogue what differentiates them. For now, I’m struggling to make the skin colour and complexion uniform, but with a little practice, I’ll be able to manage it._
> 
> _I know I will._
> 
> _I pass my hands over my true face and it changes, bones and muscles shifting, the wavy black hair just past my jaws shortening to red curls, olive skin lightening to a freckled complexion. I pass my hand back over it and the face changes again. It still aches, but I can work on that._
> 
> _What matters is that I’ve succeeded._
> 
> _I rush to my feet, stepping over the books and scrolls I’ve spread haphazardly around me, and head for the Vir Dirthara’s nearest eluvian. I barely register the journey from the Crossroads to Dirthamen’s wing in the Evanuris’ palace, too caught up in my excitement._
> 
> _After a short moment of searching, I find him in his garden under the shade of a tree, leaning against the trunk with his eyes closed and his hands folded over his lap._
> 
> _I pass beneath the wisteria I’d planted and stop in front of him._
> 
> _His eyes snap open and he moves fast, a scorpion’s strike. I let him grab my collar and pin me against the tree, dagger to my throat._
> 
> _“Explain yourself,” he says, voice even and expression calm, but his aura is a steady stream of hostility and his eyes are as steely as the dagger._
> 
> _I merely smile, too giddy with success to mind the crushing press of his aura and the blade biting into my skin._
> 
> _He pauses, the hostile aura softening into that familiar pulse of curiosity. His eyes search mine, violet on gold._
> 
> _Recognition flashes in his eyes._
> 
> _“Hello, ma Venuralas,” I say. At my voice, his recognition grows. I can’t alter my voice yet, but I can study how to modify the structure of my vocal cords later. “Remember when we had that talk a few decades ago about changing faces?”_
> 
> _Dirthamen lowers the dagger. His hand eases its grip on my collar, travels up to hold my face. His hostility completely fades. I don’t bother to hide the restless mixture of elation and triumph in my aura and expression._
> 
> _He doesn’t urge me to control it._
> 
> _“Show me your true face,” he says. I pass my hand over my face and he watches with rapt attention as it settles into the features that he’s familiar with, shifting beneath his hand._
> 
> _I lean into his touch, my smile squinting my eyes. “I wanted to surprise you.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen says nothing, keeps staring at me._
> 
> _Then he smiles back._
> 
> _“Hungry,” Dirthamen murmurs. “You’re insatiable.”_

His head flooded with knowledge and decades’ worth of research, but strangely, it didn’t overwhelm him. It settled instead, a delicate descent into water, leaving the surface undisturbed. No, of course it wouldn’t overwhelm him. He already knew it.

_Hungry._

The touch on his cheek lingered and his lips tasted faintly of wine. Lavellan didn’t shake either off.

 _Insatiable_.

Something was abuzz beneath his skin. The first tap of a beak against the inner shell of its egg.

“You have to slow down,” whispered Cole beside him.

He couldn’t access most of his power, locked away, because he couldn’t remember his time in the Fade. But once he did…

Cole stared at him.

Lavellan faced his companions. Solas finished putting one of the urns in his pack with an unhappy twist to his lips while Ellana smiled smugly.

“Are you two ready?” asked Lavellan.

Solas and Ellana looked at him.

Lavellan frowned. “What?”

Ellana smiled at him, but it looked hesitant. “Maybe we should take a bit of a break?”

He stared. “What for?”

“You do not look well,” said Solas, expression unreadable.

And Lavellan couldn’t stop his grin. “Actually, I feel great. Shall we? Two organs left.”

He didn’t wait for their response and traipsed on ahead into the darkness, something in him burning, his heartbeat seemingly matching the Veilfire’s flickers. The green light it reflected on the slick stone walls almost looked as if it was guiding him.

Hungry.

* * *

Cassandra kicked down a portion of the wall at Lavellan’s request and the weak stones collapsed, revealing a hidden chamber behind it.

“Nice kick,” said Ellana.

“Thank you.”

Lavellan pushed at the stone around the collapsed section to make sure it wouldn’t crumble on them, then entered. It was just a small room, sparsely decorated. Most of it was flooded. No matter.

He lit the glyph on the nearby wall.

> _Dirthamen is at his desk, head buried in his hands. His room is dim, the large window’s glass tinted with darkness. The shadows in the corner of the room writhe._
> 
> _I approach softly, carefully._
> 
> _“Ma Venuralas,” I whisper._
> 
> _He doesn’t answer._
> 
> _I stop beside his chair and hover my hand over his shoulder. When he doesn’t rebuff me, I rest my hand on his shoulder gently._
> 
> _“Loud?” I ask. The secrets in his head must be whispering up a storm if it’s incapacitated him like this._
> 
> _“Manageable,” he says, voice rough._
> 
> _“Give some to me.”_
> 
> _“You are already holding five as of this moment.”_
> 
> _“They aren’t too terrible at the moment. Dismissible. I’ll visit one of the temples later to impart it upon the priests.”_
> 
> _“I will give you five,” says Dirthamen._
> 
> _“Fifteen.”_
> 
> _“My raven, I believe they call that a lack of self-preservation.” Dirthamen raises his head and makes to stand but I firm my grip on his shoulder. He pauses, stares at me._
> 
> _“I can take it,” I say, determined._
> 
> _The only sound in the room is our soft breathing._
> 
> _Dirthamen closes his eyes and sighs._
> 
> _“Ten,” he says. I nod._
> 
> _He reaches out a hand. I lower myself to one knee and bow my head._
> 
> _“Offload these as soon as you can,” says Dirthamen._
> 
> _“Vin, ma Venuralas.”_
> 
> _He rests his hand on my head and the secrets pour into my mind, fills every corner of it and swells, an overlapping screeching of whispers. My breathing turns ragged and I focus instead on the weight of the hand on my head. I scrunch my eyes shut. My head feels as if it’ll split._
> 
> _After a century of seconds, the flooding stops, but now the inside of my mind is a cluster of jagged whispering. My eyes open. Everything is blurry. My head throbs like a fresh bruise._
> 
> _Dirthamen slumps in his seat, exhausted, but his expression is less strained. He cups my cheek and brushes his thumb beneath my eyes. It smears with something wet. He says something._
> 
> _I stare up at him, dazed, trying to read his lips, but my head is too full of fog and screaming._
> 
> _He speaks once more. His lips shape around the word I can recognise — my name. I mumble something incomprehensible in return and gently rest my head against his thigh. His presence at least helps with the screaming whispers, and the stabbing in my head becomes bearable._
> 
> _He runs his fingers through my hair soothingly._

“How did you know there was a hidden room?” asked Solas.

Lavellan turned to blink at him, head feeling stuffed. “What?”

He stared at Lavellan, eyes glinting from the Veilfire.

Lavellan’s head slowly cleared. The Well of Sorrows now seemed like a pleasant guest in comparison to the secrets. Those secrets were compacted information, kept together by potent magic which caused the mental strain. They would have induced madness in most people if kept for too long. No wonder the priests had mutilated their High Priest.

The Well operated on the same magic, devised by Dirthamen, but it was less potent. Gentler on the mind.

He never thought the day would come where he’d say the Well was gentle on the mind.

“I understand you are curious, lethallin,” said Solas, “but hearing this temple’s secrets may cause more harm than good.”

“I’m alright,” Lavellan assured, smiling faintly. “Thank you for your concern. Come on, one left.”

A strange void was growing in his chest.

He missed the soothing fingers combing through his hair.


	57. Lavellan

_do you hear him calling?_

* * *

The last organ ended up being a whole head.

He lugged the (surprisingly light) head along with him and waded his way to the last glyph.

> _“I want you to work with Fen’Harel.”_
> 
> _I stare at Dirthamen. He is looking out of his large window at Arlathan’s spires and floating isles, his back to me._
> 
> _“The Forgotten are moving,” continues Dirthamen. “Mother has convinced him to investigate the matter since he is welcome among the Forgotten and their followers.”_
> 
> _“Ma Venuralas, we cannot be sure of Fen’Harel’s allegiance,” I say. “He could be working with the Forgotten.”_
> 
> _He chuckles. “I doubt it. My brother hates us all too much to choose a side. I would be more worried about his willingness to act.”_
> 
> _“He’s not your brother.”_
> 
> _“Because he is not of my blood?” He turns to me, raises a brow. “He is still family.”_
> 
> _Him and his unerring loyalty to his family. I huff, but it’s tinted with fondness._
> 
> _“Besides,” Dirthamen continues, “that is why I want you to work with him. I trust my brother, but he has a habit of getting himself into more trouble than he’s worth.”_
> 
> _“You want me… to babysit the Wolf?”_
> 
> _“I want you to keep him out of trouble and aid him with the investigation. He is more likely to accept help from me since out of everyone in the family, we are on better terms. You have also worked with him before, briefly, while he was still General.”_
> 
> _“I hated every second of it.” Fen’Harel is hot-headed, always on the verge of another self-righteous jeremiad._
> 
> _“Yet you bore it. I need your perseverance.” He walks to his table and pours himself a glass of wine, but he doesn’t drink for a while, merely regards it in his hand. “Report back to me.”_
> 
> _I watch him, tilt my head, the pieces falling. “You’re doing two things at once.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen takes a sip. “Keep an eye on my brother,” he says. “I don’t want him in danger. His terrible temper has landed him in trouble too many times.”_
> 
> _“I remember,” I mutter. “He doesn’t seem to realise that he’s not the one who cleans up the messes he leaves behind._ I _do._ I’m _the one who has to pick up the pieces after his tantrums and right them."_
> 
> _"At my behest,” he says, almost teasing. “Such a terrible man you work for, tasking you with this.”_
> 
> _“You’re doing your job. And I’m doing mine. Even if you don’t order me to, I’d do it anyway, I suspect.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen hums and looks out the window once more. “Because you love the People.”_
> 
> _Felassan’s words echo in my head._
> 
> _“When it’s the People against the People,” I repeat softly, “who do I protect?”_
> 
> _Dirthamen turns and looks back at me and the silence stretches._
> 
> _I tense. I shouldn’t have—_
> 
> _“Difficult, isn’t it?” asks Dirthamen unexpectedly. I blink. “It’s… relieving to have another realise this. My family can’t seem to understand this dilemma, save Mother.”_
> 
> _I look out the window as well._
> 
> _“I did not order you to love the People, you did that of your own accord,” says Dirthamen. “I am also aware that you sometimes go beyond your orders so you can help them.”_
> 
> _“You disapprove?”_
> 
> _“No. It’s rather admirable.”_
> 
> _I purse my lips, ears heating, and turn my head away._
> 
> _He places his goblet down and approaches me, cups my cheek. “I need you. You’re the only one I can entrust family matters to.” My gaze falls in deference._
> 
> _“Alright,” I say with a sigh. “At least I can try to stop him from making a mess.”_
> 
> _“Fen’Harel,” I greet._
> 
> _“Solas,” he corrects, eyeing me with clear disapproval._
> 
> _“Don’t cause me trouble,” I say._
> 
> _“Likewise.” He turns and starts walking. “Don’t fall behind.”_
> 
> _“If we’re going to be forced to work with one another, you’re going to have to learn to be more cooperative.”_
> 
> _He smiles sharply. “The only forced party is you. I am here at nobody’s directive but mine.”_
> 
> _I smile back. “Ma Venuralas, Mythal sent you here.”_
> 
> _His expression shutters in cold disdain at the address. “That does not change anything. I am here as a favour; you are here because of orders. There is a clear difference.”_
> 
> _“Discipline.”_
> 
> _“Level of critical thinking.”_
> 
> _My mood darkens. For Dirthamen. Do this for Dirthamen._

Lavellan grimaced. Well, he wasn’t surprised that they didn’t get along too well in the beginning.

But that was how it had begun. How had it progressed? There was still a large blank in the middle, and come to think of it, how had he even felt about Solas back in Elvhenan? Without the influence of his current emotions and history with Solas?

“Thank the Creators, that’s the last of them,” sighed Ellana.

They returned to the central sanctuary and descended the stairs into the flooded lower area, made their way to the altar at the front. Lavellan placed the head down on its respective pedestal while Ellana and Solas placed the rest.

After, they stood back and Solas glanced at him.

“Are you certain?” he asked. “There’s no telling where this ritual will lead us.”

“We need to find Dirthamen’s Wisdom,” said Lavellan. “The Venatori haven’t reached this area yet. We can’t let them get it, whatever it is.” He turned away. “I’ll be damned if I let Corypheus keep touching and destroying what isn’t his.”

Solas frowned, whether in agreement or contemplation, then turned and spun his staff, gathering ambient magic. He slammed his staff down. Green light rippled outwards and the pedestals gleamed green, the temperature dropping. The air shimmered, wavered.

Pressed in on them.

Lavellan tensed.

“I told you it’s angry,” said Cole.

They backed away from the pedestals, weapons out.

Magic gathered, the green threads of light turning blue.

Shattered.

A despair demon manifested, shrieking, cowled head bent in eternal misery. Its teeth-grinding cries scraped against his chest, but beneath it… Beneath it, he could discern its hysterical whispers.

_Why? Why? I tried to protect them. I tried to save them. Dirthamen has fallen!_

Its attention fell on Lavellan.

Lavellan stilled.

_You!_

It surged, emaciated hands reaching for him, moving faster than any despair demon they’d faced. It knocked him onto the water. Ice settled in his veins.

The enchantment from the bone amulet triggered and a barrier sprung around him.

A mouth with two rows of teeth on its face, nothing else. It screamed at Lavellan, claws battering against the barrier.

_How dare you return!_

Lavellan stared back in horror.

“Hanon!” cried Ellana.

A stream of fire knocked the despair demon off him. Cassandra hauled him up.

“Focus!” she said. Lavellan didn’t answer, and she frowned. “Inquisitor?”

He shook himself out of it and broke a flask of fire over himself with a snarl. The despair demon coated itself in a barrier and shot lances of ice at him. Lavellan wove through them as he charged. 

Lavellan closed the distance with his hook and chain and swept forward with a war cry. He buried his daggers into its neck. His momentum carried him further and they crashed into the water.

_You! You! Your fault, your fault!_

Corpses rose from the water and shambled towards them.

“Take care of them!” He told his companions, fighting to keep the demon pinned down. “I’ve got this one.”

The Highest One screamed and clawed at him. Lavellan dodged its unsuccessful attempts, kept the daggers firmly in place.

_Traitor! Traitor! Undeserving of our Deity’s love!_

Rage swelled in his chest. Traitor? Lavellan didn’t betray Dirthamen. He _wouldn’t_.

“Quiet!” he snapped.

He pulled a dagger out and let go of the other. His free hand caught the demon’s wrist as it clawed at him, and he cut its hand off with a decisive slash. It shrieked. Lavellan cut its other hand off. The enchantment on his dagger made the process all too easy. 

“You should have stayed dead,” hissed Lavellan. “I never liked you.”

Flashes of hateful looks. Envy.

> _“I am the Highest One. I outrank you.”_
> 
> _“I have no interest in entertaining your poor attempts at competition. Leave me be.”_

It screeched.

Lavellan stuffed one of its severed hands into its mouth and pressed the tail of his burning coat against its face. It thrashed.

“You were no match for me then,” Lavellan taunted. “And you’re no match for me now.”

_Curse you, Isha’belsal’in. I hope you suffer as we have. As you’ve made our Deity suffer._

Its struggling waned.

_Our poor, poor Deity… How he grieved…_

The Highest One stopped moving. No more whispers echoed in his mind. The Highest One dissipated into wisps of magic and returned to the Fade, leaving Lavellan kneeling in the dank water, his heartbeat loud in his ears as he panted.

He wasn’t a traitor. He was certain of it. As certain as he was that the sun rose and set every morning and evening.

But what had he done that made the Highest One think he was?

Lavellan looked back at his companions just as Cassandra stabbed the last of the corpses. 

He pushed himself up, catching his breath. His hands were shaking. The rage was still coursing through him.

“Is everyone alright?” he asked, reeling in the emotions that had been heightened by the adrenaline.

“You kept the main threat sufficiently distracted,” said Cassandra. She frowned at him. “Are _you_ alright, Inquisitor?”

“I’m fine, I’ve faced worse demons before.”

Her frown only deepened.

A shimmer of light caught their attention and their heads turned towards the source. The large, locked door in the sanctuary gleamed, light flooding through the grooves on its surface as a magic circle flashed above it.

The raven-cloaked figure reappeared by the doors and waited. 

Lavellan sheathed his daggers with a grim finality. Vergala cried in the skies above.

“Come on,” he said and headed for the doors. His focus narrowed, the cloaked figure at centre. There were answers behind that door. He was close to something, he could feel it. Something in him was reaching, like a hand slipping through the bars of their cage, straining to retrieve the key just beyond its grasp.

Once they neared the doors, the cloaked figure walked through it. The pull within him grew stronger.

Lavellan took a deep breath, and pushed the doors open.

They found themselves in a small chamber that was in better condition than the rest of the temple. The roof was still missing, but at least it wasn’t flooded. 

Lavellan scrutinised the twin statues of howling wolves against the far wall.

“Fen’Harel again,” murmured Ellana as she stopped beside him.

“Is that surprising?” asked Cassandra. “I apologise, I am unfamiliar with your pantheon.”

“Nothing in our lore connects Dirthamen to the Dread Wolf,” said Ellana. “It’s… interesting, is all.”

“A lot of things have been lost,” said Lavellan. Dirthamen was one of Solas’ most trusted among the Evanuris, and Dirthamen cared for Solas. So much so that he’d deployed Lavellan to _babysit_ him. Maybe Dirthamen was paying homage. That, or wolves were just symbols of protection and Solas’ wolf moniker had been a nod to his previous post as a General.

“It’s not just that,” said Ellana. “Did you notice that all of the Evanuris had a presence here? As murals, statues, or symbols? But none of Dirthamen himself.”

“Loyalty to family,” Lavellan murmured. “This temple is showing the people he’d valued most: his family.”

Solas looked away. Lavellan pursed his lips.

“But what about himself?” asked Ellana.

“This temple represents him. And within him, he holds these people dear.” 

There was a chest resting at the centre of the chamber. Lavellan approached it and pried it open. The pulling sensation within him vanished.

His companions peered over his shoulders and looked at its contents.

It was a shield.

“Dirthamen’s Wisdom is a shield?” asked Ellana. “Not what I was expecting.”

Lavellan picked it up gingerly and felt the faint tingle on his skin from the magic still imbued within it. Visions flashed in his head. A headache pulsed. He stared at his reflection on the shield—

> _Spirits clamour to watch the decisive battle between the elves and the Earth. But while they’re here to watch the event, I’m here to watch one person only._
> 
> _He is a terrible and beautiful vision, striking from the shadows in his dark armour, sword and shield gleaming silver. His aura pulses with sickly-sweet bloodlust._
> 
> _Yet, he is so… careful. Clever. Cunning. Methodical as he leads his army and cuts down their enemies._
> 
> _I’ve been watching Dirthamen for a while now, ever since he crossed into the Beyond to search for his twin. I expected to eventually grow bored of him, expected that he’d fail, but he’s never failed. Or if he does, he twists it into a victory and it never feels like a failure by the end of it._
> 
> _He’ll pull a string, its consequence not immediately seen, until one day you realise the ocean has dried out over time without your noticing. He knows what variable needs to change, how much it should change, when it should change. This war has brought out these qualities even further._
> 
> _The Earth eventually falls, poisoned, and its children retreat into the stones. The war is won. Thanks to Dirthamen’s strategy._
> 
> _The elves soak in their triumph and relief, but Dirthamen slips away from the aftermath without bothering to tend to his injuries. He retreats to a hillside to stare at the stars._
> 
> _What does he think about when he looks at them? What is he thinking now? Why isn’t he resting?_
> 
> _I stay a considerable distance away, lingering beneath a tree. I stare at the stars too._
> 
> _This realm is loathsome, and I dislike lingering within it, but I concede that the stars are one of the few beautiful things about it._
> 
> _I’ve always thought of this world as unchanging. Stifling. I could never understand why the others have decided to cross and gain a body._
> 
> _But if the reason is because they saw themselves in this world, because they saw the different ways they could_ be _, the endless possibilities of their evolution… then I understand. He has opened a path. He has made a path. I want to walk this path that he has painstakingly dug into the soil with his bare hands._
> 
> _I want him to show me how I can become a new, impossible thing. I want him to mould me with his clever, cunning, careful hands._
> 
> _I want to see._
> 
> _I want._
> 
> _“You have been following me for a while,” says Dirthamen and I start. He turns and looks at me. “Ever since I went into the Beyond to search for Falon’Din.”_
> 
> _I nod._
> 
> _“Why?” he asks._
> 
> _I pause, then drift away from the tree and forward towards him. The shield still strapped to his arm glints from my golden light. He looks weary. He should rest._
> 
> _“I see it,” I say. “You turn me into art.”_
> 
> _He stares. Violet eyes._
> 
> _“Who are you?” he asks._
> 
> _The stars burn above us, unerring. He is worthy of me._
> 
> _“I am Change.”_

Lavellan released a shuddering breath.

“The preservative magic of this artefact is immense,” said Solas. “Even now, thousands of years later, the Veil sings clear, though worn.” He looked around. “I suspect it is why the temple still stands.”

Lavellan’s grip tightened around the shield, a wave of sentimentality battering him. “If we take it…” The image of them standing on that hillside beneath the stars refused to leave his mind. “If we take it, nothing will keep this temple together. It will—” Fall. 

Something in him knew that this temple was Dirthamen’s very first temple. This place held so much significance.

His shoulders slumped. “We can’t take it.”

“We must,” murmured Solas.

“But—” He caught himself, forced himself to calm, and closed his eyes and turned away with a bitter press of his lips.

“Hanon,” said Ellana and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulders, “we can’t leave it here. The Venatori will come and take it.”

_But you don’t understand, this temple will fall! It’s— the only thing left—_

Heart twisting, Lavellan passed the shield on to Cassandra.

“Have it,” said Lavellan, sullen. “It’ll be in good hands with you.”

“Inquisitor, this is— I cannot accept this. It belongs to your people.”

 _Please, just… Don’t let this disappear just yet._ “It’s been here for millennia. Carry it until we beat Corypheus. Let it taste battle one final time, then we’ll give it to the Dalish. Please?”

Cassandra hesitated, but gently, she took it off him. He almost hesitated passing it on, but he forced himself to let go.

He smiled. “Thank you.”

She frowned quizzically at him, but she nodded and strapped it to her arm since her old shield was still on her back. Solas kept his gaze level.

“You disagree?” asked Lavellan.

Solas frowned further. “No,” he said. “I— No, you are right, let it see use. Allow me to examine it and ensure it is safe for use.”

Lavellan nodded. “If you please.”

Solas and Cassandra went off to a corner of the room flooded with moonlight to converse about the shield while Ellana studied the inscriptions on the walls. Lavellan stood in the middle. Lost. No, this— This couldn’t be it.

He turned his head. The cloaked figure was standing by a furtive part of the small room.

Cole hovered beside Lavellan. “He mourned,” said Cole. “Growing grief gripped tight and terrible as he locked it away. Wrote in the inner walls of his bones. It’ll stay but he’s gone.”

Something in Lavellan twisted. He approached the wall cautiously and the raven-cloaked figure assimilated with the shadows.

Lavellan knelt and ran his fingers over the tiled surface until his fingers caught on an edge. A loose tile. He pried it off. A soft breath left him as he discovered that the surrounding tiles could also be pulled out. They revealed an ornate panel carved in a way that allowed him to grab it for purchase. Lavellan grabbed and pulled.

It resisted. He planted his foot against the wall and heaved.

It slid out without a sound. Another chest. While the sides were ornate, the flat top was blank with one symbol carved onto its surface. It was Elvish.

 _Lavellan_ , it read.

Ice washed over him, and his limbs froze.

“Cole,” he whispered, “that’s my clan name.”

“Is it?”

“What do you—”

> _“Ma Venuralas, I have chosen my name.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen smiles and gestures for me to sit. He offers a paper and quill. I write out the letters of a series of words. I haven’t chosen a name even after seven decades, refusing to choose one while training on the island because I wanted to wait until I see him again. He’s here now._
> 
> Lana. Venuralas. El’u. Elan.[1]
> 
> _I take pieces from each of the words and reassemble them into a unique symbol — my name._
> 
> Lavellan.
> 
> _Dirthamen tilts his head and hums. “Lavellan,” he says._
> 
> _My heart swells with joy._
> 
> _“Lavellan,” I say._
> 
> _“Lavellan,” says Dirthamen again and I like the way his voice shapes around it. He stands, moves to my side, and places his hand on my head. Violet eyes glimmer, delighted. “I like it.”_
> 
> _I grin._

He withdrew his hand from the chest, his breaths too loud in the room.

“Lavellan,” he murmured, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. Lavellan closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

And somehow, someone had named their clan after him. And somehow, he found himself within it. The middle was still hazy. From Elvhen to Dalish. How?

Dirthamen’s voice echoed in his head.

_“Lavellan.”_

Something slotted into place. Lavellan felt like he could see himself better, his edges more defined, features clearer.

He eyed the chest. His name was on it so it must be his. Lavellan felt along its edges, looked for locks but found none. Before he could get frustrated, another magic circle flashed on top, overlaying his name, followed by a soft _click_. He pulled at the lid. It lifted.

Lavellan opened it and stared at the contents.

A cloak of raven feathers.

The world faded into dull ringing in his ears. Lavellan took the cloak with shaky hands, the inside lined with soft fabric but the outside… He ran his fingers over it. The feathers were real.

> _Asunara hands Lavellan a package and he frowns at it._
> 
> _“A present,” she explains. “From us.”_
> 
> _Lavellan looks back over to the rest of the El’amelan who wait with a smile. They are a fledgling group still, numbering less than twenty, yet they’ve already made a name for themselves._
> 
> _He opens the package and his eyes widen at the raven cloak._
> 
> _“Are these real feathers?” he asks._
> 
> _“Yes,” she says. “Feathers from the ravens that have died in service or those who have reached the end of their lives.”_
> 
> _He smiles. “Taking the saying ‘Passing on the mantle’ a little too literally.”_
> 
> _She laughs and rubs the back of her neck. “It will also distinguish you as the Ras’virelan,” she continues. “Should you ever wish to be recognised immediately. Let Elvhenan fear the man in the cloak of raven feathers, let Elvhenan know exactly who walks among them. Let them know it is Ras’virelan, that it is Isha’belsal’in.”_
> 
> _Lavellan grins at the rest of them. “You all just want me to wear this because you tire of me playing tricks on you while wearing different faces.”_
> 
> _“You say the most hurtful things, Ras,” says Bel’vedir, the El’amelan’s scryer and beastkeeper. The very first member._
> 
> _“I mean it with affection, Vedir.” Lavellan runs his hands over the feathers. “But alright. It would be remiss of me not to wear it.” He offers it to Asunara. “Will you do me the honour?”_
> 
> _“The honour is all mine.” She takes it and steps behind him, drapes it over his shoulders, and pulls the hood up over his head. It’s warm. “To the ends of the world, we will follow you.”_

His eyes watered, but he blinked it away. Lavellan unfurled the raven cloak and put it on.

It felt like coming home.

He relaxed, wrapped it tighter around himself and pulled the hood up, sighing in contentment at the drape of warmth.

“You held your hand out, believed in them when nobody would, and they would have done anything for you,” said Cole.

There was more in the chest. Lavellan reached inside and pulled out twin daggers, their blades broken. His hands wrapped around the hilt, familiar. There were schematics for the daggers in the chest too.

And in between all of that, so small he’d almost missed it, was a box.

Lavellan picked it up. It fit within his palms. He opened it and his eyes widened.

An earring.

> _“I have something for you,” is the first thing Dirthamen says the moment Lavellan enters Dirthamen’s private chambers. Lavellan changes his face to his true one. Always the true one around Dirthamen, as per his request._
> 
> _“A mission?” Lavellan asks and stops in front of his desk._
> 
> _“No.” Dirthamen rolls the scroll in his hand and places it back in its cylinder. He stands and tips his head. Lavellan goes to his side._
> 
> _“For research?”_
> 
> _“A gift.”_
> 
> _Lavellan stops. “A gift.”_
> 
> _“You look surprised at the notion. Have I been this remiss?”_
> 
> _He shakes his head, bewildered. “I— No, you’ve been more than generous. It doesn’t have to come in the form of physical gifts.”_
> 
> _“Perhaps,” says Dirthamen. “But I saw it and thought of you.”_
> 
> _Lavellan swallows his joy, fighting back the pull of his lips. Dirthamen reaches into his robe to retrieve a small box wrapped in smooth satin, and offers it to Lavellan. He accepts it, gently unwraps the satin, and opens the box._
> 
> _His breath catches._
> 
> _Inside rests an earring. A small amethyst cut into a teardrop is nestled within the delicate metal curlicues of golden vines. He can feel the magic imbued within it. It’s a clear declaration._ I am important.
> 
> _“Ma Venuralas, this is beautiful,” whispers Lavellan, picking it up tentatively. If he wears it in public, it’ll be a signal to others around him that crossing him is unwise. Something this magically potent is essentially a ticket granting him easier access to the higher echelons of the nobility. “Are you certain?”_
> 
> _“You said amethysts are your favourite.”_
> 
> _Lavellan holds the earring up, the amethyst catching the light._
> 
> _“It’s perfect.” Lavellan smiles. “Thank you.”_
> 
> _He smiles back. “I’m glad you like it.”_
> 
> _Lavellan pulls his hand back and stares at the earring, his smile fading._
> 
> _“Is something the matter?” asks Dirthamen._
> 
> _“This does bring up the issue of favouritism. If I wear it…” Too many people in Dirthamen’s court already whisper about Lavellan’s rank, about how it isn’t earned by merit. Such rumours are dangerous. If the wrong people hear about it, they may see it as a weakness on Dirthamen’s part and seek to exploit it. It’s also a matter of pride. Lavellan knows how hard he’s worked, how hard he continues to work, and he dislikes the restless mouths undermining his efforts._
> 
> _“It will be hard to identify you since you change faces often, and I’ve ensured that the magic within it cannot be traced back to me.”_
> 
> _“It’s the principle of the matter.”_
> 
> _“You are under no obligation to wear it. I simply wished to give you a token of my appreciation.”_
> 
> _Lavellan looks down. “I did not mean to come across as ungrateful.”_
> 
> _“You did not. I understand your concerns. If it’s going to cause complications, I can take it back—”_
> 
> _Lavellan closes his hand around the earring possessively just as Dirthamen reaches for it._
> 
> _A brief span of silence stretches between them._
> 
> _Dirthamen lowers his hand and laughs._

Lavellan took the earring out of the box. The metal was still polished, the amethyst still vibrant. He stared at it. The void in his chest grew.

“The shield has been purged of any detrimental—”

Solas stopped. Lavellan closed his fingers around the earring and subtly moved his hand away from sight.

“What have you found?” asked Solas, something unknown in the tone of his voice as he regarded Lavellan’s new inventory. The raven cloak would be familiar to him. The figure they’d hunted together had worn it.

“There was a hidden chest,” said Lavellan, feigning calm. “Cole and I found these inside and a few schematics. I think it’d interest Dagna.”

“I… see.” He stared at Lavellan, on the edge of a revelation he couldn’t attain, and Lavellan gave him no further purchases. “Will you keep the cloak?”

“It’s warm.” He stood. “Ellana, is there room in your pack?”

She approached at his call, but she faltered at the sight of him. As did Cassandra.

Wordlessly, Ellana unslung her pack and offered it so he could place the schematics inside along with the fragments of the daggers. They may be broken but Dagna could still benefit from studying them.

Maybe even replicate them.

He placed the earring back in its box and pocketed it. Nobody saw.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this place,” he lied, forced cheer back into his voice. “I think it’s time to jump into a river and bathe. I saw a stream earlier.”

“I smell like the dead,” agreed Ellana, running along with it.

 _Thank you,_ he said through his eyes. She tipped her head subtly in acknowledgement.

Solas stared at him as they walked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Darkani for fucking guessing Lavellan's name on November 22, 2020. Yeah, I marked the date because I went ballistic. You didn't even have any fucking evidence!
>
>> One last prediction, not really related to anything, but it'll be funny if I'm right.  
> Ras' name - actual name, not title/s - is Lavellan. Like first name.  
> Not sure why I think this. Just kinda do lol
> 
> ??? 'just kinda do'??? wtf I'm going to eat your socks
> 
> Go have your laugh, you were right xD Shaking my fucking head, I CANNOT believe--
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] (Didn't put a hover translation becoz I wanted to expand on it a bit more)  
>  **Lana:** [verb] to give without condition  
>  **Venuralas:** [noun] Deity  
>  **El'u:** [noun] Secret  
>  **-elan:** [suffix] attached to a verb to turn it into an agent noun. E.g. vira (to walk) --> virelan (one who walks) 
> 
> Okay so, Elvish is a language of intentions. Lavellan's name can be taken any number of ways. Whether one who gives secrets without condition to their deity, a secret one who gives without condition, or one who does it secretly. All of them applies. [⇧]


	58. Dirthamen

_i'm sorry._

* * *

The raven cloak stayed dry even as they walked through the flooded areas.

They encountered a small group of the Venatori near the entrance. A spellbinder and three warriors.

“ _Get out_ ,” Lavellan said, and shot forward with his hook and chain, buried his daggers into the spellbinder’s eyes. They fired blindly, flailing and screaming in pain. The fire spell caught on the raven cloak.

The fire fizzled, the magic nulled.

Once they’d taken care of the rest, Lavellan held up his cloak with a considering expression.

“Enchanted with magic resistance,” said Lavellan. The El’amelan had left nothing to chance. His heart warmed. 

“Then continue wearing it,” said Solas, something indiscernible in his gaze and voice. “But do not use it as an excuse to be reckless. It is likely only resistant to weaker spells.”

Lavellan nodded. “Yes.” Solas’ brows raised slightly, clearly hadn’t expected him to agree or give in so quickly, and Lavellan huffed. “I did tell you I’d try to listen.”

Solas stared at him again and Lavellan refused to fidget under his scrutiny. He’d been too careless tonight. What was Solas thinking?

“Can we please get to the bath thing?” asked Ellana. Solas and Lavellan snapped out of it.

“Right,” said Lavellan, “Let’s go.”

There was indeed a stream nearby, and after confirming that it was safe, they took turns bathing.

Once it was Lavellan’s turn, he approached the stream and undressed, hung the cloak on a low branch of a nearby tree. He waded into the stream until the water stopped at his waist. It was cold. The moonlight was bright. Lavellan eyed the scattering of stars and just let himself breathe for a moment, let his brain settle with the unlocked information.

The Well of Sorrows was quieter than usual.

Lavellan worked on getting himself clean, grimacing as he pressed against the new bruises he’d acquired.

Once he was sure he’d washed away the dankness from the temple, he sighed and braced himself against one of the boulders.

After all the memories he’d uncovered… He felt unbalanced. The steady soil he’d been standing on had been disturbed and everything was shifting and he couldn’t plant his feet anywhere. All the while, the warm, terrible void gnawed at his bones and picked the meat off his ribs.

He hugged himself. The gnawing was a deeper ache. He didn’t know what could fill it, he didn’t know if it could ever be filled again.

_“Lavellan.”_

He scrunched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shut up.”

_“Lavellan.”_

Lavellan allowed himself a burst of frustration and anger and hit the water.

He stared at his wavering reflection.

His shoulders fell. Everything in him fell. He was too tired for this tonight.

A rustle behind him, followed by the sound of wooden wolves.

“That eager to get the mushrooms off your feet?” Lavellan teased, but Solas didn’t respond.

He turned and faced Solas. It was dark and the water came up to Lavellan’s waist, so his dignity was mostly preserved, but Solas still averted his gaze. Lavellan bit back a smile.

“You act as if you haven’t seen me half-naked before.”

“I am being polite.”

“Not so polite. I believe we had an agreement to take turns bathing.” Lavellan did smile this time, but it was tired. 

“I was worried,” was all Solas said.

“Ah, yes, the water is evil. It’s going to eat me, Solas. Solas, help. Help!”

Solas turned his head to look at him again. “You’re using humour. It seems I was right to worry.”

He threw his hands up. “Can’t I just be a funny guy? I’m tired, and occasionally funny. That’s me. That is the culmination of who I am. Call me a spirit of the Funnies.”

"Humour," corrected Solas, smiling slightly. “And you’re still deflecting.”

Lavellan scowled and turned his back to Solas. “Since you’re here, you may as well get yourself washed.”

It was silent for a while, but then he heard the shifting of fabric. The sounds of rippling water soon followed as Solas entered the stream. 

Lavellan leaned against a boulder, the press of it hard against his back as he crossed his arms and rested his head against it so he could discern the skies for any familiar constellations. 

Solas washed himself and Lavellan smiled at his muttering.

“Problem with the mushrooms?” Lavellan asked.

“Stop it.”

Lavellan laughed.

After a while, the sloshing of the water eased. Solas rested on the boulder slightly opposite Lavellan’s, the silence between them comfortable. It eased the tumult of Lavellan’s thoughts. A little. Solas was a stabilising force, ironically.

Maybe that was part of being Change. Seeking external forces that would ground him if he couldn’t regulate himself.

Hell, maybe Ghilan’nain was right. Maybe he _was_ a parasite.

“What did the Highest One tell you?” asked Solas, dispelling the quiet.

“Is that what you were worried about?”

“I thought it may be a good start. You have never been so angry when you’d faced demons before. Or brutal. You told it to be quiet. What did it tell you? Do not lie.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Lies of omission are still lies.”

Lavellan fixed him with a solemn stare. “Is that so, Solas?”

He made no visible reaction besides the tensing of his shoulders.

“Pray tell me, what am I lying about?” Lavellan asked.

“I would not know. It is called omission for a reason.” Solas finally met his stare. “What did he tell you?”

Lavellan stayed quiet, considered lying outright or deflecting again. He did neither.

“He called me an undeserving traitor.”

“Undeserving of?” He betrayed none of his thoughts, his expression impassive.

“Not going to ask about the traitor part?”

“And risk your evasion of the subject?” teased Solas.

“How dare you accuse me of that? I’ve been nothing but truthful.”

“Well now, _there_ is an outright lie.” His teasing tone faded. “What did you tell him?”

Lavellan shrugged. “I told him he should have stayed dead.”

Solas frowned. The water and air were cool, bordering on cold. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” he admitted. “Will you let me?”

“Will you?”

Solas’ frown smoothed. “You already see far too much.”

A breeze whispered past. What game were they playing now? Lavellan wasn’t sure how willing he was to hold onto the truth with an iron grip anymore, not when everything felt as if it were unravelling beneath him. He’d thought that he would go into this second life equipped with all he needed. That he would be on top. That he would know how to navigate Solas.

Fool. This wasn’t a do-over. This was a continuation. As if he’d cleared a preliminary hurdle _before_ he could enter the actual game.

Lavellan hugged himself. “I think I’ll retreat for the night. It’s getting chilly and my fingers are pruning.”

Solas watched him. “Will you tell me? When you’re ready?”

Lavellan paused, feeling a droplet of water slide down the curve of his neck.

“I’m still waiting,” he eventually answered and left it at that. He waded back to shore. Solas didn’t call after him.

He dried and redressed, and left Solas be, the ends of his cloak brushing against his ankles as he walked. The earring’s box was still in his inner pocket, pressing against his side.

Ellana was waiting for him at camp, sitting beside the small fire and looking close to collapsing from exhaustion. He ruffled her hair.

“Sleep,” he said. “We’ve had a long day.”

She frowned up at him. “I just… are you alright?”

He considered lying again, but he was too tired. “No.”

Ellana stood and tugged on his arm. “Come on, let’s go for a short walk. Clear our heads. You can tell me what you found on the way.”

Lavellan hesitated, almost declined, but he tipped his head and Ellana smiled. They walked into the forest while he talked. She huddled close beside him and he draped the cloak over them.

She was quiet by the time they returned to camp. Cole was sitting with Vergala, but everyone else had gone to sleep.

“I wish I could help more,” Ellana murmured.

“Just be here.” He slung his arm around her shoulder and laid his head on top of hers. “You’re alive. That’s enough for me.”

She stayed quiet, her demeanor softening at the answer, but she still had that dissatisfied scrunch to her brows.

A spark lit in her eyes.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait. The Keeper— I remember she told me that once the First becomes the Keeper, the previous Keeper teaches them the origins of our clan, and that they receive the very first Keeper’s journal. But this is kept within the clan. Never shared during Arlathvhens. That was the first Keeper’s wish, apparently.”

His eyes widened. “You think…?”

She grabbed his shoulders, lowered her voice so the others in the tent wouldn’t wake. “There has to be a reason why the clan is named after you in there somewhere.”

“But only the Keeper can have it. It sounds like it’s a tradition to keep it a secret too.”

“I can send a letter back and tell Keeper Deshanna it’s important. If we can get our hands on that book…”

Lavellan looked down, mind spinning.

“Hey,” said Ellana and squeezed his shoulders. He looked up. She smiled. “We’ll figure this out, alright? I’ll help you.”

“I did mean it, you know,” he said, smiling back in thanks. “Just you being alive is enough.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? Exceeding expectations is a talent of mine.”

His smile widened.

* * *

He dreamt of a grand temple. Vaulted ceilings gleamed with golden tiles, incense thick in the air, the devoted performing their dance of worship.

“Wait!”

He turned. A man reached for him, chasing, left hand flaring with borrowed sunlight. A ghost called to stay.

He did not wait.

There was no time to wait.

So he moved, made sure that the ghost followed close behind because the ghost was not whole. And neither was he. Neither of them held wholeness.

He led the ghost through the winding paths of the temple, his cloak trailing behind him, and waited by the altar chamber where six pedestals stood. The ghost slowed as he ascended the stairs to the altar, eyes wary.

Desiccated organs rested on the pedestals. Golden eyes, silver tongue, hand flaring green, ears with silver cuffs, heart wrapped in thorns, and the head — that eyeless, tongueless, earless head — with a stylised raven upon its face. The vallaslin ink bled gold. The face on the head slowly distorted into a frozen, ghoulish scream.

Disassembled to be reassembled.

He stared at the ghost who had gone pale at the sight before him.

Their gazes met.

He reached. The ghost stayed rooted in place and watched him advance with fear, but the fear melted, replaced by stark realisation. The ghost reached back. Their hands pressed together. Mirrors.

Lavellan stared up at the raven-cloaked figure wearing his face.

The organs melted.

Lavellan shattered.

* * *

He awoke gasping, blinking up at the morning sky in disorientation, something hard against his back.

Lavellan bolted up. He wasn’t in his tent or his bedroll.

He was in the ritual chamber.

“The fuck?” he whispered to himself and pushed himself up. The raven cloak was on his back, but he didn’t remember putting it on. The pedestals were empty.

Lavellan regarded his surroundings. The temple was back to its dilapidated, flooded state, though a few streams of light from the sunrise were slipping past the canopies. How did he get here? What was that dream?

He rubbed his face. The raven-cloaked figure had been wearing his face.

Or maybe not wearing.

Maybe the figure had finally found their face.

The Well of Sorrows whispered, pressing, requesting attention. It felt almost… respectful. Reserved. Usually it had no trouble blaring its message. Lavellan tuned into it.

_Ise amahn. [1]_

There was a presence behind him. 

The Well of Sorrows quieted.

“Hello, Lavellan.”

Everything in him froze. He let out a shaky breath. No… it couldn’t be.

Lavellan turned.

His next breath rattled in his lungs.

Lavellan straightened his back and squared his shoulders as if that would impart him with strength.

“Hello, Dirthamen.”

Dirthamen smiled gently at him. A blade of sunlight fell in a strip across them, showering Lavellan yet stopping at Dirthamen, leaving him only half-cast in light.

“You’re not real,” Lavellan said, had wanted to sound certain and composed, but his voice came out as a trembling whisper instead.

“I’m real enough.” He took a step closer.

Lavellan took one back.

Dirthamen stopped.

“You’re not,” Lavellan said again. “You’re an echo, travelling long after the source of the noise is gone. You’re not here.” Something twisted in him. “You’re not here.” His voice came out choked. He’d meant for it to be a self-reaffirmation, but it twisted into an accusation. 

He’d been fine without the memories of Dirthamen. He’d been _fine_.

And now all he had was the increasing awareness that some part of him had been lost. Possibly forever.

“Fuck you,” said Lavellan, scrunched his eyes shut and looked away because he couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to see him standing _there_. Lavellan would choke on the cluster of emotions he’d been pushing away otherwise. “I was fine without you. I was _fine_.”

“Were you?” Dirthamen asked, soft.

His hands balled into fists. “You’re not him. Whatever you are, leave. You’re not him.”

“Do you wish I was?”

“Stop it.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Stop it. Stop talking. Stop it.”

The silence stretched.

When it had dragged on for long enough, Lavellan opened his eyes tentatively, but Dirthamen was still there.

Lavellan fixed him a bitter glare. “Why are you here?”

Dirthamen looked up at the sky, the sunlight falling over one eye. He squinted slightly.

“Because you were calling for me,” he said.

“I wasn’t.”

“Then why am I here?”

Lavellan made an irritated sound at the back of his throat. “Because this is your temple. Echoes of you linger here. The Fade must be building a dream off that.”

“Echoes of you linger here, too.” He tipped his head back down so he could meet Lavellan’s eyes again. Everything about him screamed of familiarity. “I’m here because you wanted me here.”

“I don’t.” But his voice sounded feeble. The void in his chest pressed at him.

Dirthamen took another step forward, then paused. Lavellan looked down but didn’t move back. Dirthamen moved closer, crossing the small distance between them, dark robes billowing with each step, until he was in front of Lavellan.

Lavellan stared at the ornate designs of Dirthamen’s robes instead of meeting his eyes.

“You can tell me to leave,” said Dirthamen.

The word, “Leave,” sat on Lavellan’s tongue.

No, that was a lie. The word wasn’t on his tongue at all. It was so far from it. It was languishing in the forgotten corners of his mind instead, yelling at him that telling Dirthamen to leave was wise.

Lavellan’s silence was answer enough.

He finally met Dirthamen’s eyes, taking in the familiarity of his face, and he caught himself reaching for him. He pulled his hand back.

Dirthamen’s gaze softened. “You can. This isn’t real.”

“You’re real enough,” he said, repeating Dirthamen’s earlier words, his hand hovering uncertainly between them. Lavellan pressed his fingers against Dirthamen’s chest instead. He was solid. Lavellan’s lips twisted. “Real enough.” He clutched at him, the smooth fabric of Dirthamen’s robes scrunching beneath his grip. “Real enough.”

And his presence was an undeniable comfort, real or not.

Dirthamen slowly raised his hand, paused again, waiting for Lavellan’s reaction. Lavellan said nothing, but he didn’t move back.

He rested his hand against Lavellan’s cheek, as he always did. Lavellan couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“This isn’t real,” Dirthamen said again, gentle.

This wasn’t real.

So he could give in, couldn’t he? Just for a while. He could be weak.

Lavellan leaned into his touch. As he always did. Dirthamen’s hand was warm against Lavellan’s chilled cheek, and that warmth was spreading over the rest of him.

Lavellan’s eyes closed, lips pulling into a small, contented smile without his meaning to. The void in him filled with smoke. It wasn’t the real thing, but it was enough to emulate it and he could feel complete. If for a while.

“You’re not really here,” Lavellan whispered. His chest was thick with an intense array of emotions warring against one another, the force of their fighting threatening to break the walls of him, cause him to spill over.

“No.”

“You’re locked away in fuck knows where.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re real.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t.”

Lavellan opened his eyes, tried to meet Dirthamen’s gaze, failed. 

“You’re not here but you’re still real,” Lavellan said. “No matter how much I wish you weren’t.”

“If you wished for me to not be real, I wouldn’t be here.” He brushed his thumb across Lavellan’s cheek. “You cannot keep pushing me away.”

“Watch me.” That didn’t sound as intimidating or challenging as it could have been. Likely because he wasn’t doing much to back up his declaration.

“What good is that going to do?” asked Dirthamen. “Pushing me away?”

“It means I won’t ache for something I can’t have.”

“My Lavellan,” he murmured, placed his other hand at the back of Lavellan’s head, slowly guiding his head to rest on Dirthamen’s chest. Lavellan could feel the press of Dirthamen’s collarbones against his forehead. “You’re already aching.”

Lavellan took a shaky breath. He hated this. Hated how much he sought this. His hand was growing sore from his tight grip on Dirthamen’s robe.

They both stood there, real and unreal.

“You have to be careful,” said Dirthamen, his voice reverberating in his chest, and Lavellan relaxed further. “You’re moving too fast, ma el'ean[2]. Things will get more and more difficult to control.”

“Everything feels like it’s pushing me to move faster. I’m—” _Scared._ He bit his tongue.

Dirthamen carded his fingers through Lavellan’s hair, comforting. Lavellan stopped himself from melting against him.

“You said you’d be here,” Lavellan found himself saying, heat rising. “You said you’d undo whatever destruction I’d cause. That you’d stop me from destroying myself.” He gritted his teeth, pressed himself further against Dirthamen as if he could disappear if he did it hard enough. “But all I’ve done so far is break and break and break and I’m the one putting myself back together.”

Dirthamen didn’t answer. He stopped combing through Lavellan’s hair.

He tightened his grip around Dirthamen’s robes even further. “I’m _tired_ of picking myself up. I’m tired of thinking, I’m tired of working and worrying and planning. I’m _tired._ I want to stop, fuck—” The heat caught in his throat. He clung onto Dirthamen, pressing his face into his chest so he wouldn’t feel his tears roll down his cheeks. “You were supposed to catch me.”

“How can I catch you?” he asked. “You would not welcome it. I am no longer your god.”

“I’m not asking you as my god!” he snapped and raised his head, eyelashes matted with tears, every blink feeling scratchy. Lavellan’s body trembled from the effort it was taking to keep himself together.

Dirthamen’s expression remained mostly unchanged, but his gaze softened. “Then as what?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn’t find the word that could convey the proper depth. Not without an aura to accompany it. Words weren’t enough. An emotion burned in his chest, dripping in thick strands from his ribs, but he couldn’t put a name to it. He wished he could simply reach in and grasp it, rip it out and offer that viscous, pulsing burn trickling through his fingers as answer.

Lavellan made a frustrated sound. 

“The point stands,” said Dirthamen. “Friend, god, or…” He paused. Shook his head. “Whatever I may be, you would not welcome my return.”

It was Lavellan’s turn to say nothing.

Dirthamen sighed, cupped Lavellan’s face once more. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Are you really him?” Lavellan asked, almost a whisper. “Or am I going mad? Am I just seeing and hearing what I want? I know it can’t be you, you’re gone.”

“You said I was an echo.”

Would an echo feel this warm?

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” repeated Lavellan with a wry smile.

Dirthamen smiled back. That smile Lavellan loved so much.

“My dear Lavellan…” He wiped some of the wetness beneath Lavellan’s eye. “It’s time to wake up now.”

Lavellan closed his eyes and held the hand Dirthamen had over his cheek, gripped it, felt the press of Dirthamen’s knuckles against his palm.

“You bastard,” said Lavellan voice breaking.

His eyes opened.

The canopies of the trees within the temple sanctuary greeted him, the sky the colour of a soft bruise. It was dawn. The stones bit into his back.

Lavellan sat up, found himself on the floor of the ritual chamber, raven cloak on his back.

But no Dirthamen.

Dark wings fluttered in his periphery and he turned, heart in his throat, irrationally hopeful. But it was only Vergala. She perched herself on a pedestal, tilting her head at him.

“I saw him,” said Lavellan, voice hoarse. “Or what I wanted to see.”

She opened her beak.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice a clear copy of Dirthamen’s.

Lavellan stared.

Then hung his head, hand clutching at his chest, raw and aching and lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for the temple folks! See? Wasn't that a fantastic vacation?
> 
> Me cramming solavellan and dirthavellan in one chapter: ¿por qué no los dos? 
> 
> In all seriousness, I was very nervous about these temple chapters, just ask my beta reader. You can thank them for the dirthavellan btw. They planted the seeds in my noggin. You can also just thank them in general for looking over my sleep-deprived words and teaching me grammar along the way (mwah thank u).
> 
> But yeah, the reception has been so fantastic, you all were fantastic, and I was honestly so surprised and happy that it was well-received :D
> 
> Before you go, have some ART. Darkani drew the Change tarot card from the Fade, it is so pretty.  
> [HERE LOOK AT IT](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/641964111361654784/thegreatthrowaway-the-change-tarot-card-my)
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ise amahn:** He is here[⇧]  
> [2] **Ma el'ean:** My raven[⇧]


	59. Elegy for the lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read and only very lightly proofread by me because I am TiredTM. If there are any dodgy bits, you did not see them. It does not exist. Reality is a sham. I am a con artist and you have been bamboozled by my wit and charm.

_longing and void—_

* * *

Lavellan walked back to camp with Vergala perched on his shoulders. He stared at the sky. It was just past dawn. Cassandra would probably be awake by now. Maybe Solas. Definitely not Ellana.

He glanced back at the temple behind him, a cold hollowness having settled at the bottom of his chest. How did he end up at the temple?

Vergala butted her head against his cheek, and he smiled, raising his arm so she could perch on it. He held her against him.

When they arrived at camp, Cassandra was already awake and pacing while Cole was sitting and drawing on the stones once more. She looked up at his arrival and her stance visibly relaxed.

“Inquisitor,” she said, a touch relieved.

“Good morning,” he said, wary, preparing for any questions.

“I was worried since Cole said you went out for an early walk, but you left your weapons behind. Please be careful. We don’t know how safe the area truly is.”

“Ah.” His gaze flicked towards Cole. “Sorry to worry you. I just… wanted to clear my head, I suppose. We still have cured meat, right? We can have that for breakfast. Then we should head to Royeaux to meet up with Vicinius.”

She nodded. “I will check on the horses then.”

While Cassandra headed for the horses, Lavellan let Vergala go and perch on Cole’s shoulder. He stared at Cole.

“What happened?” Lavellan asked.

“You woke up,” said Cole. “No longer looking through a window. You opened the door.”

Lavellan rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I meant— How did I get from here to the temple?”

“You were following yourself.”

“What, I got up?”

“Yes.”

 _Sleepwalking. Fantastic._ “This better not become a regular occurrence. I sleep in the highest tower of Skyhold, Cole. You can imagine the kind of trouble I’d be in.”

“You won’t. You’re awake now.”

Lavellan rummaged through their supplies, chewing at his lip. _Was_ he awake? He still felt as if he were locked in inertia. His mind might be clear, but he didn’t feel so defined any more, felt as unstable as a cloud of smoke.

“Was he really here, Cole?” Lavellan asked softly.

Cole paused his drawing and looked back at the temple, just visible past the trees. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes glazing. “He had more to say, but that was all he could bring himself to say. I’m sorry. Whispered beneath his breath.” He looked at Vergala. “I’m sorry. And she heard. A message from a bleeding god.”

“Stop,” said Lavellan, a lump growing in his throat. “I just— I just want to know if he was real. Just tell me, Cole. Please. Was he there, was I talking to him? Some part of him left behind, I don’t know! Just—” He stopped and forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath, turning away and rubbing his face. “Was that him or was it just… wishful thinking?”

He stared at Lavellan, the glaze in his eyes vanishing. “It was real. To you.”

“That’s not—!” Lavellan let out a sharp, bursting breath. “But was he _there_?” he asked, almost manic. “Just give me a straight answer, _please_.”

And Cole only looked at him sadly. “I don’t have one.”

Lavellan’s shoulders slumped, defeated. A soft, despondent scoff of laughter escaped him.

“Okay,” said Lavellan, almost a whisper. “Could you get water from the stream please?”

Cole watched him for a few seconds in which Lavellan refused to make eye contact. Eventually, he stood and heeded the request.

Lavellan glanced at the simple drawing Cole had done on the stone.

Two ravens.

* * *

They finished packing up their supplies and saddling the horses. Lavellan shot the temple another glance, hesitant to depart.

“The Veil is calmer,” said Solas as he stood beside him, looking at the temple as well. “Perhaps the spirits within the temple have finally been put to rest.”

_But what about me? When do I get to rest?_

Sorrow built behind Lavellan’s eyes. “It’s probably peaceful just being a spirit.” he murmured. “Simplicity. You know what you embody.”

“Perhaps,” said Solas, something wistful in his tone. “I suppose it would depend on the kind of spirit you are. Some are more drawn to the waking world.”

“That must suck. It’s a shitshow over here.”

Solas laughed, gentle but deprecating. “Indeed.”

They slid on their horses and rode. Lavellan kept sending glances back until the temple was lost within the forests once more.

* * *

They made their pit stop at Val Royeaux to go meet with Vicinius, but Lavellan already knew that they’d be too late.

He didn’t bother pushing to meet up earlier. The man had it coming.

They hailed a carriage to the Dawn Quarter where the Inquisition-owned residence awaited. It was a small house, simple. As simple as Orlesians could get, anyway.

“Why is everything so bright?” Ellana griped. “And _marble_.”

“Welcome to Orlais,” said Lavellan.

A few hours after settling, an Inquisition scout arrived with a letter.

“Worship,” they said with a salute, and passed him the letter. “I am to inform you that Ambassador Montilyet has requested for you to wait for her arrival tomorrow before returning to Skyhold.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Do I need to send anything back?”

“No, Worship. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Stay safe.”

They saluted again and left.

Ellana squinted at him. “Is the Inquisition everywhere like this?”

“Pretty much,” said Lavellan.

“His presence is felt everywhere,” murmured Solas.

“The Inquisition,” he corrected.

“Under your leadership.”

Lavellan sighed and opened the letter, reading Josephine’s curling penmanship. He frowned.

“Is everything alright?” asked Cassandra.

“An assassination attempt has been made on Josephine’s life. She’s alright, but she wants to talk to me about it tomorrow.”

“Maker,” breathed Cassandra. “One thing after another.”

“Rest up. We still have that meeting with Vicinius tonight.”

During the afternoon, he and Ellana made an unspoken decision to visit the alienage, doing their best to stay out of sight. He’d foregone the raven cloak for a normal one since the raven cloak was too conspicuous, but he felt uncomfortably bare without it.

The earring box stayed in his pocket.

They scaled the walls and watched from the parapets. The alienage was like the Halamshiral slums — cramped living spaces, poor conditions, but a strong sense of community.

“Creators,” whispered Ellana. “I saw the alienage in Wycome but… they’re overcrowded in here. How many elves do you think live here?”

“From what some of the elves I’ve spoken to in the Inquisition have told me, easily over ten thousand.”

They returned home, their moods a cocktail of displeasure.

Solas looked up from his book. Ellana retreated into a bedroom while Lavellan put the raven cloak back on and collapsed on the couch across Solas. Lavellan lay back, one knee pulled up, the other dangling off the couch.

“The alienage,” Solas deduced. Lavellan made a noncommittal noise and Solas sighed. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“It’s a reminder,” Lavellan murmured, and draped his arm over his eyes.

He still had to watch over the People.

* * *

They arrived at Vicinius’ place that evening. One of the outer walls had been damaged by magic, the bricks littering the front lawn.

Solas examined the remnants of magic still lingering in the air.

“The Venatori,” he said.

Cassandra tried the door. Locked.

“Here, leave that to me,” said Lavellan and strode towards the door. “This requires a delicate touch.”

He picked up a brick and smashed it into the window.

His companions stared at the broken glass in stunned silence.

Lavellan reached in through the window and unlocked the door. Cole’s expression brightened.

“Oh! That was fast,” praised Cole.

“You are so lovely, Cole,” said Lavellan as he opened the door. “Always appreciative of my contributions.”

Solas covered his face with his hand.

“It’s too late to disown family members, isn’t it?” asked Ellana.

“Never too late,” said Cassandra.

Lavellan grinned as they stepped into the ruined house. The Venatori came running down from the commotion they’d caused and their moods soured significantly.

The bedroom with blood splatters on the walls and Vicinius’ unfortunate corpse in the middle soured their moods further.

He surveyed the carnage, the stench of acrid metal thick in his throat.

Something flashed in the corner of the room, small whimpers filling the space. He turned his head.

> _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t— Please don’t kill me.”_
> 
> _Lavellan crouches in front of the teenager cowering in the corner of the room, but they won’t meet his gaze. He looks around him. It’s… quite the scene. The bedroom they’re in used to have white walls and pristine marble floors._
> 
> _He eyes the explosion of dried blood on the walls and floors._
> 
> _Used to._
> 
> _“What happened?” Lavellan asks._
> 
> _“I— I got frightened. Please, I didn’t mean to kill them.”_
> 
> _“You killed very prominent people in Lord Elgar’nan’s court. A lot of people won’t be pleased. You’ll be put to death.”_
> 
> _They whimper._
> 
> _A soft mew catches Lavellan’s attention. He frowns. “What was that?”_
> 
> _“Ah.” They uncurl slightly. A kitten pops its head out of the collar of their tunic. “We’re not supposed to keep pets, but I found her starving. I couldn’t just leave her alone. So I hid her with the other animals. I’m trying to nurse them all back to health. I…_ overheard _that my masters found out and wanted to kill the pets I’ve been secretly keeping to teach me a lesson.”_
> 
> _Lavellan tilts his head. ‘Overheard’._
> 
> _“So I tried to run,” they continue. “But my masters caught me. They were going to kill her in front of me and then the others. The animals didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not fair.” Their dark eyes flash, defiant behind the curtain of blonde hair, their arms wrapping protectively around the kitten. Their aura flares, jagged and piercing. “So don’t touch her.”_
> 
> _The air thickens with magic. Dangerous and potent._
> 
> _Lavellan regards them more closely._
> 
> _“You can’t run for long,” says Lavellan. “They’ll find you. Lord Elgar’nan will want retribution.”_
> 
> _The magic in the air builds and they open their mouth—_
> 
> _“So how do you feel about faking your death?” asks Lavellan._
> 
> _They stop. Stare. “What?”_
> 
> _“Fake your death to avoid persecution. Pretend you killed yourself after killing your masters.”_
> 
> _They flinch at the final part of his statement, their own crime summarised so brazenly to their face._
> 
> _“I could help you,” says Lavellan._
> 
> _They shoot him a suspicious glance. “Why would you help me?”_
> 
> _He smiles. “I’m trying to build an elite group of spies. I think you’re a good place to start.”_
> 
> _“What? No, you’re mad— I don’t— I don’t_ spy _. I’m no good at sneaking or— or— being a_ spy _! I’m bad at lying, I’m bad at acting. I’m bad at—” Their eyes fall on their masters’ almost indiscernible corpses. Their voice softens. “I don’t want to kill again.”_
> 
> _“You won’t have to. You’re a scryer, Bel’vedir.”_
> 
> _They tense._
> 
> _“You never overheard,” says Lavellan. “You saw a vision, and you tried to run. But your masters couldn’t well lose their little scryer.”_
> 
> _“How do you know my name?”_
> 
> _“I like being thorough.”_
> 
> _“Who are you?” Bel’vedir asks, voice dropping into a whisper._
> 
> _Lavellan changes his face in answer. Their eyes widen._
> 
> _“The face changer. I’ve seen you,” they say. “You walk the shadows. A great and terrible raven. I saw you.”_
> 
> _Oh? “What else did you see?”_
> 
> _“Your large wings were torn, and you fell into the sky.”_
> 
> _Lavellan goes quiet, unsure of what to make of that._
> 
> _Bel’vedir bows their head. The kitten rubs its face against their cheek._
> 
> _“Wouldn’t her claws hurt?” asks Lavellan, filing the vision away._
> 
> _“She’s cute, I don’t mind,” they murmur, and look up at him. “So you’ll help me in exchange for me joining you?”_
> 
> _Lavellan pauses. “I’ll help you. You can join me if you wish. I will have to train you though, but I’ll keep in mind your concerns. Having a scryer will help make our future jobs easier. You can also keep your pets.”_
> 
> _They brighten at that._
> 
> _“If you stay with me, I swear you will be safe from dangers not pertaining to your duties. I can teach you how to wear anonymity, to use the shadows as sword, shield, or cloak. I can teach you to harness your magic, make sure you don’t lose control like this ever again.”_
> 
> _Bel’vedir purses their lips. “I will have to think on it.”_
> 
> _“Very well.” He stands. “Shall we go fake your death?”_
> 
> _The affair is sorted, the case is dismissed as closed._
> 
> _Lavellan sets up a small, hidden cabin where Bel’vedir retreats to with all their pets._
> 
> _“In five days, come to me with your answer,” says Lavellan and leaves them be._
> 
> _Bel’vedir finds Lavellan five days later. He already knows their answer._
> 
> _He offers his hand._
> 
> _“Swear you will never give me orders to kill,” says Bel’vedir._
> 
> _“I swear.”_
> 
> _They take his hand._

“Hanon, I found these,” said Ellana. Lavellan blinked. The corner of the room was now empty, and the whimpers had faded.

Fondness warmed his chest.

Lavellan looked at Ellana. She held up the shards of a memory crystal.

“Good find,” he said. “We’ll take it to Dagna. Now let’s get out of here. I’ve had my fill of desiccated body parts for the year.”

They left the house. The fondness in his chest twisted to longing, then emptiness.

_“Your large wings were torn, and you fell into the sky.”_

“Right again, Vedir,” Lavellan murmured to himself.

* * *

The next afternoon found him sitting beside Josephine on a balcony while waiting for Comte Boisvert. Josephine stirred honey into her tea, looking off into the distance in worry. Lavellan drummed his fingers on the table and propped up his cheek on his fist.

Faint music in the distance caught his attention. He raised his head.

“That doesn’t sound Orlesian,” he mumbled.

Josephine looked up from stirring her tea. “I’m sorry?”

Lavellan paused. “Do you hear music?”

“Music?” She frowned and paused, straining to hear. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Ah.” A memory again. What now? He settled back in his seat.

The music was so… lovely. A full, soothing, yet almost weeping sound. What instrument was that? He’d never heard it before, but it sounded so familiar. A violin? No, not quite, but something similar.

Lavellan closed his eyes.

Notes drifted. They were muffled and he couldn’t hear them clearly.

He follows the sound, curious.

> _The Evanuris’ palace isn’t a place he’s fond of. Everything is too large, too wide, too open. The only place he likes within it is Dirthamen’s wing. But still, Lavellan makes his way through the too-wide corridors in search of that melody’s source. What beautiful music. Who is making it?_
> 
> _He encounters a sky-blue spirit sitting on the ledge of an arched window. A spirit of Inspiration. The music is louder here, but Inspiration is not the source._
> 
> _“Beautiful, is it not?” asked Inspiration, electric flashes of a more vibrant blue circulating within its form. “He rarely plays now, but he used to play all the time. I used to always listen.” It sighs contentedly as it looks out at the clouds._
> 
> _“Who is it?” asks Lavellan._
> 
> _Inspiration gestures at the corridor’s intersection. “Make a left and find out. But he hates it when he has an audience. Try not to get seen. I don’t want him to stop playing.”_
> 
> _Lavellan doesn’t want whoever he is to stop playing either._
> 
> _He nods in thanks and turns the corner, the music now louder. He determines the instrument as the_ num’ean[1] _. The rich sounds of its strings always holds that tinge of melancholy, plucking at something within the heart._
> 
> _Lavellan finds a door by the left wall. It’s unlocked. He opens it slightly and peers into the room._
> 
> _It’s a music room. Someone is seated with their back to him, the_ num’ean _resting on their thigh as they bow and release their melody. Lavellan’s eyes widen at the familiar spill of dark hair._
> 
> _Dirthamen’s deft fingers press at the strings with incredible precision, bowing with such feeling._
> 
> _Lavellan has never known that he plays. Centuries of serving Dirthamen and he’s never known? Or, wait, has Lavellan even bothered to ask?_
> 
> _The music is swaying, rich, a touch aggressive at points. Dirthamen plays a quick succession of notes and Lavellan gawks, feeling as if Dirthamen will slip at any moment, but he doesn’t. Of course not. He’s in control._
> 
> _Dirthamen stops and places the bow down, reaches towards the small table and writes into a page. Lavellan gawks further._
> 
> _He’s_ composing _?_
> 
> _Dirthamen puts the pen down. “Come in and close the door behind you.”_
> 
> _Lavellan jumps, then sheepishly shuffles in and closes the door. “I apologise for eavesdropping.”_
> 
> _“I am surprised. You do not frequent this part of the palace.”_
> 
> _“I heard music and it— I thought it was lovely and I ended up following it.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen pauses, then murmurs, “Thank you.”_
> 
> _He places the_ num’ean _on its stand, its five strings stark against the dark and polished wood. Most_ num’eans _are adorned with crystals or have the carved grooves on its main body painted, but Dirthamen’s is plain._
> 
> _“Still,” says Dirthamen, “how strange. I’m quite certain I’ve placed muffling wards in place. I must have forgotten.”_
> 
> _“Why?” Lavellan asks. “Your music is beautiful. You should be playing in front of crowds so your music can be appreciated and adored.”_
> 
> _He stands and faces Lavellan._
> 
> _“I do not make music to be adored,” he says. “It’s merely an outlet, I suppose. For my personal enjoyment. Occasionally, I play for my family.”_
> 
> _“Oh,” says Lavellan. “I understand. I’ll take my leave immediately if you’d prefer to be alone.”_
> 
> _Lavellan bows, already opening the door—_
> 
> _“Wait.”_
> 
> _Lavellan stops, glances back at Dirthamen. He isn’t looking at Lavellan, has his gaze fixed on the sheet music on the table instead._
> 
> _“You may stay, if you’d like.”_
> 
> _Lavellan can’t stop himself from smiling. “I promise not to look if it makes you uncomfortable. I have some reports with me. I’ll look over them instead.”_
> 
> _Dirthamen says nothing, merely seats himself back down and picks up the_ num’ean _. Lavellan takes that as an acquiescence and moves to the couch beside the open window, the curtains fluttering in the summer breeze. He settles in and takes out the reports from the canister on his hip._
> 
> _The melody starts again. Lavellan smiles as he reads, the breeze playfully threading through his hair._
> 
> _At some point, he nods off, sunlight warm on his nape. Dirthamen’s song curls in his chest._

Lavellan opened his eyes. The music was gone. The loss of it settled like a stone in his heart and he slumped in his seat.

‘Comte Boisvert’ finally arrived not too long after.

Upon revealing himself as a disguised assassin and standing to leave, Lavellan blocked his way.

“Might I pass, Inquisitor?” asked the assassin. “I did not come here to fight. Merely to talk.”

One less of him was one less who could make an attempt on Josephine’s life.

At least, that was what he told himself.

“No.”

The assassin unsheathed their daggers from gods know where and lunged at Lavellan without warning. He ducked.

“Jo, get back!” he warned.

More assassins from the House of Repose appeared as back-up, but Lavellan had killed would-be gods before.

They were all dead within a minute or two.

Josephine looked at him afterwards, disapproval and horror shining in her eyes. “Inquisitor, he gave us a chance to leave peacefully.”

Lavellan watched the blood pooling on the marble floors, feeling mildly detached.

“Real Comte Boisvert’s in that wardrobe in the corner,” said Lavellan, nodding at said wardrobe. “And that’s at least four less assassins who’d be after you.”

She frowned at him. “Was this truly for me?”

Lavellan’s gaze flicked sharply towards her. Her eyes widened and she averted her gaze, not looking at the bodies on the ground, holding herself tightly. He froze at the reaction.

“Jo, are you… afraid?” _Of me?_

“I am going to free Comte Boisvert,” she said, clipped, and rushed to the wardrobe.

Lavellan looked at the sliver of his reflection from his daggers, blood smeared along its surface. His eyes were cold.

He looked at the assassin’s corpses again and felt mildly sick.

* * *

After speaking to Leliana about the situation with Vicinius, the two of them headed to the Undercroft to consult with Dagna about the memory crystals.

Leliana eyed his raven cloak as they walked past his throne. “And here I thought I had a stake on the raven imagery.”

“You lost the moment I got a raven throne,” he teased.

“Varric is having the time of his life.”

Lavellan sighed and opened the door leading to the Undercroft. They descended the stairs. “Wonderful. What’s he come up with now?”

“Still the elven prince. He’s adamant.”

Dagna looked up from her workstation with a spark in her eyes. The reassembled memory crystal pulsed blue on her table.

“This is an amazing find!” she gushed. “It preserves a likeness, memories! The Venatori damaged it a little, but here—"

She tapped its surface and the crystal activated with smoke and light.

Teal wisps materialised in front of them, assuming the vague form of Corypheus and Calpernia. Lavellan frowned at the wisps of Calpernia’s face.

She was snarling.

“You are falling behind,” Corypheus said.

“You would entrust a task of such magnitude to a lyrium-addled rat from the sewers?” she asked.

“Samson’s preparations are progressing swiftly. What of you? What have you to show? A sabotage of his efforts? You overstep.”

Calpernia bowed her head but Lavellan could see the bitter twist of her lips from his angle. “Apologies, Elder One. I still believe I am best suited to be the Vessel, and I hold Tevinter’s best interests at heart. If you would just—”

“Then prove it.”

The memory crystal sparked, and the visions faded. The teal wisps sputtered away.

“Sod it,” muttered Dagna and she shook her head. “Sorry, that’s as much as it can take. It wasn’t meant for this.”

Lavellan turned the scene over. That wasn’t what it had been last time. There had been no conflict between Samson and Calpernia.

“I smell dissent,” he mused.

Leliana held her hands behind her back and nodded. “We could exploit this.” She frowned. “Though I’m not certain what Vessel they were speaking of. Power? But Calpernia is already a magister. Corypheus must have some other plan.”

Dagna hummed. “I’m no Shaper, but I think I can get the crystal to remember new sounds!”

“And hide it in Calpernia’s belongings,” said Lavellan. “Or Samson’s to get his perspective on things. If there’s a rift within Corypheus’ forces, we want to worsen it. Although, Corypheus seems just fine worsening it himself by pitting them against each other.”

“He’s declared himself a god,” said Leliana with a wry smile. “You cannot expect the poor thing to make sound decisions.”

He laughed. “True enough. Alright Dagna, work your magic.”

“It might break,” warned Dagna.

“I know you can do it,” he said. “You’ve never let me down.” And she hadn’t. Ever.

He absentmindedly ran his fingers over his left forearm.

“We could track the Venatori who have been scouring the elven ruins,” said Leliana. “They’ll lead us to her. The matter of Samson’s location will be trickier.”

He chewed on his lip in thought. “Better the demon you know,” he mumbled. “We’ll stick with Calpernia.”

“At once,” said Leliana.

“Oh, and Leliana?” he asked. “Destroy the contract on Jo’s life.”

“You’ve convinced her?”

“Partly. I’m not going to sit and wait to gain favours, not while her life is in danger.”

“I will send one of my best,” she assured then paused, appraising him. There was a sharp glint in her eyes. “I heard about what happened with the House of Repose.”

He said nothing.

“What happened in the temple?” she asked.

“Reassembled the dried organs of a dead priest.” He shrugged, aiming for levity. “The usual.”

She didn’t buy it. “Are you getting lost in the shadows, Mahanon?”

The sound of the hammer hitting the anvil filled the sudden silence. Hiss of cooling metal.

There was a strange disconnect at hearing his name.

“No,” he lied. “It’s fine.”

* * *

Lavellan sat on his bed in the darkness of the room, staring at the earring in his hand. He placed it back into its box, tucked it away into the farthest corner of his bedside drawer, and closed it. He buried his head in his hands. His elbows dug into his thighs. The hollowness in his heart knocked and gnawed and knotted.

It wouldn’t go away. He’d tried everything. He’d sparred, read, drank, laughed, buried himself in work. But nothing. They would distract him for a while, but the void would always return, always taunt him.

The bed dipped beside him. His head jolted up in alarm, but it was only Ellana.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Hello. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You weren’t answering me,” she said, brows furrowing.

“Oh. Sorry. I was just—” He looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m just stressed—”

She gave him a look.

He pursed his lips and bowed his head. Ellana squeezed a reassuring hand around his knee and waited as Lavellan sorted out his thoughts.

“It’s like I’m being pulled in two directions,” he said. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “You’re my brother.”

“Am I?”

She raised her head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“The only way a spirit can pass through the Veil and stay for this long is if they possess something. Like what Compassion did with Cole. Am I even Mahanon?” He glanced at her. “Or did Mahanon die and I just took on his memories and kept thinking I was him? Maybe I’m not the Mahanon you grew up with.”

“That’s not true.”

“Why not?” he challenged. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

She shook her head. “Shut up.”

“Maybe I’m not your brother. Someone else wearing your brother’s dead body, wearing his face.” He couldn’t stop. “I do that right? Change faces?”

“Stop,” she said.

“Why are you pushing it away? It’s completely reasonable.”

“Stop.” Her face pulled in that way it did when she was trying to hold back tears.

“At some point, your brother died, and you never even mourned him. You just kept on going with a stranger. Would you even be able to tell the difference?”

“Trying to be an asshole isn’t going to make you feel any more alive,” she snapped.

“I’m already dead,” he snapped back. “I’m supposed to be dead; _you’re_ supposed to be dead. This entire fucking world is supposed to be dead.”

She flinched at the outburst. 

Lavellan’s face immediately fell and coldness gripped him.

The quiet between them was just as cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t— I’m sorry.”

Ellana’s face twisted. She grabbed a pillow and hit him with it. 

“That was mean,” she said, sounding firm, but her voice wavered at the end. Her grip tightened on the pillow. “Why are you torturing yourself with speculations when you don’t even know the truth?”

Lavellan didn’t answer.

Ellana dropped the pillow, grabbed him by the collar, and shook him. “You’re not any less deserving of acceptance if it does turn out like that. You can’t insist that spirits are people and then _not_ extend that to yourself.”

“But—”

“So until we get to the bottom of this, don’t agonise over hypothetical scenarios. Now shut up and give me a hug.” She yanked him up by the arm and wrapped her arms around him. Lavellan hugged her back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled into her hair. “I don’t know why I said those things. I’m sorry. Don’t die, please. Don’t leave me.” 

Her arms tightened around him even further. “I won’t leave you. Not anytime soon. So don’t start pushing away the people who care about you. Don’t let whatever void you’re feeling fool you into thinking you’re alone.”

Lavellan closed his eyes. “Maybe not alone, but it’s looking for something. I don’t think I can be rid of it, ever.” He’d opened a door that couldn’t be closed. No wonder Asunara had been apprehensive.

“Maybe,” she said, “but didn’t you say the Well of Sorrows had felt almost impossible to ignore in the beginning?”

“I guess…”

“And now it’s like background noise. I know optimistically you’d want it to be gone but… sometimes all you can do is live with it. Shitty though. Sorry, that was probably really unhelpful.”

“More helpful than me sitting in the dark and being a jackass.”

“There’s that.”

“The memories will probably only get worse.” He didn’t know what he’d do if he ever got all of it back. “They’re getting clearer, and they’re blurring into the present.”

“We’ll deal with them as they come. There’ll be bad days and good days, but we’ll be with you, good or bad day.” She paused. “And you know, it might help if you let more people know.”

He froze. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Please drop it.”

Ellana thankfully did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Josephine Disapproves-
> 
> If advisor approval systems were a thing, you know Jo would have definitely disapproved of you killing the House of Repose assassins especially since you were given a diplomatic option.
> 
> Anyway, Lavellan is Not Coping.
> 
> Alternate chapter titles:
> 
>   * haha Sad Boy go brrrr
>   * local ambassador scared of her boss
>   * Dirthy is a musician no i don't take criticism
>   * scary face-changing man adopts yet another traumatised child who has committed murder but this one gets ✨visions✨
>   * weather update: 92% chance of an identity crisis
> 

> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Num'ean:** A five-stringed bowed instrument. (lit. weeping bird) [⇧]


	60. See these familiar souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-care checkpoint! :D Reminder to eat/hydrate/walk/stretch/rest your eyes/sleep if you're able to <3

_with messages from the past_

* * *

Vivienne returned to Skyhold yesterday garbed in black, but attended to her duties as normal.

Lavellan found himself ducking into the kitchen to prepare her favourite tea, already stirring honey into it by the time he realised what he was doing. He stared at it. She wouldn’t have tried this tea yet. And she wasn’t even big on tea, had only favoured it during the years after the Exalted Council.

Oh well, he already had it. He carried it with him to the Hall’s upper balcony where she was resting on the chaise, looking over some papers.

He placed the tea on the table. Vivienne glanced at it, then at him.

“I thought you might like a break,” he said.

She stared at the tea for a while and Lavellan resisted shifting uncomfortably. Her legs uncrossed and she placed the papers down. He relaxed.

“Why don’t you sit with me, darling?” She reached for the cup and saucer and held it primly, still staring at it.

“Embrium, amrita vein, anise, and cardamom,” he said as he sat on the chaise opposite her. “A spoon of honey. Steeped for a while so it’s strong.”

Vivienne sipped, and paused. Lavellan waited.

She took another sip. He smiled.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“To my surprise, yes. I was apprehensive.”

Lavellan chuckled. “I saw.”

“It’s a lovely brew.”

“I thought you might like it.”

They both looked out the balcony doors at the clear blue skies. Summer had arrived. It was still cold, but the air was a little less biting and frigid. Or maybe he just felt warmer from the scarf and raven cloak that he’d been wearing all the time. He’d gotten a few weird looks for wearing it at first, but then it became normal. The raven cloak had become associated with him. Again.

“How are you?” he asked.

Vivienne sipped again. “I’ve stabilised the political disputes in Val Royeaux, and the Council of Heralds will now be led by Bastien’s son, Laurent. You met him earlier, along with Bastien’s sister.”

He hummed. She’d been showing those two around earlier and had introduced them to Lavellan, sharing some small talk and condolences. 

They’d ended that conversation with the Inquisition now having influence over the Council of Heralds and the highest echelons of the Chantry. And by the Inquisition, he was aware that also included her.

All within one conversation. What a formidable woman.

“More Game-playing on your end,” he said.

“You and I are still playing, Inquisitor. The Game does not stop for grieving.”

“No, I suppose not.” He paused. “We can’t keep amassing power, you know?”

“Of course not. Were power the train of a gown, you would inevitably trip over it if it grows too long.” She sipped again. “But you mustn’t let that stop you from seizing what you can.”

“When do you know the limit?”

“If you do not know your limit, then you do not deserve power.”

Lavellan let out a surprised breath of laughter. She raised a brow.

“Some people call you unfeeling,” he said. “Already attempting political plays that take advantage of your lover’s death.”

Not even a shift in her disposition. “I simply do not see the point of wasting time.”

“It’s not that you’re unfeeling. I think this is just your way of coping, your own way of grieving. An attempt at normalcy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, the movement so slight that most would have missed it.

“Of course, I could be terribly off the mark.” He shrugged. “I’m not claiming to know you.”

“I cannot tell,” she said, “if you’re mocking me.”

“My mocking is usually more direct. And I wouldn’t mock you, anyway. I may disagree with some of your methods, but I still respect you and value your contributions.” Lavellan played with the ends of his Dalish scarf, tracing the patterns on it.

She’d refused to bend and break in the past, refused to surrender to the demons and spirits taunting her in her dreams.

Her death had been quiet in the waking world, but in the Fade, she had fought and fought and fought, dying in a brilliant glory. She’d never backed down, not even in the end.

_The sight of her gaunt and worn in her bed sent his stomach flipping, but when she looked at him, her eyes were bright and hard and filled with defiance._

_Vivienne patted the spot beside her. Lavellan sat._

_“You’re saying goodbye, aren’t you?” he asked._

_“I will be leading a large number of mages in the Fade,” she said. “And we will damage the Dread Wolf’s numbers. Hopefully the war in the Fade will wear the demons’ numbers thin and give them less opportunities to harass the other mages in their dreams.”_

_“What if he comes himself?”_

_“Then I will dock his tail and send him scampering away.” She glanced at his arm. “Perhaps take one of his limbs.”_

_It wasn’t a realistic threat, but what mattered more was that she’d thought to make it._

_His vision blurred with warmth. It stayed no matter how many times he blinked._

_“Must you?” he asked. “I don’t— I can’t lose anyone else.”_

_“I must. And you must.” She placed her hand over his and gripped it. “You must be strong.”_

_“I know.” His voice cracked._

_“You will lose and lose, so make sure you win back what you’ve lost by tenfold.”_

_Lavellan forced his expression to stay neutral, holding the tears back. Vivienne’s expression softened._

_“I’ve quite missed your smile,” she said. “I am sorry we have not given you much reason to do so.”_

_“Not exactly a joyful time.”_

“You do not wait for a joyful time,” Lavellan said, her voice echoing in his head as he repeated her words. “You make it into one.”

Vivienne gave him an inquisitive look.

“Someone once said that to me,” he said.

“Who is this person?”

“She’s… gone now.” His gaze fell.

_“Farewell, Vivienne.”_

_Silence befell the room as she slipped into her dreams, never to return._

_He realised he never got to thank her._

Lavellan rose. “In any case, I hope the tea is to your liking.”

“It was kind of you stop by.” Her voice softened slightly. “Thank you.”

Lavellan smiled at her. _I’ve quite missed your smile._

“And thank you,” he returned, the words carrying the weight of the gratitude he’d never gotten to say. She’d never hear it, but this was close enough. “Have a good day, Vivienne.”

Her eyes followed him as he left.

* * *

“A missive from Hawke arrived earlier,” said Cullen during the War Council, terse as he handed the small letter to Lavellan.

Lavellan opened it.

_They’ve turned the workers into living mines. Get your ass over here. Now. Please._

The ‘please’ was squished at the edge of the paper, as if an afterthought.

“We’ll get ready to leave immediately,” said Lavellan, frowning. “What of Florianne?”

“Missing,” said Leliana. “However, we have retrieved the names of those in the Venatori without losing any of our agents.”

“Good. Do search for Florianne. It’s not a high priority, but just in case.”

They discussed a few more issues (he repressed a shudder at the news about the Executors), then adjourned the meeting.

* * *

Leaving Skyhold was almost a relief. All Lavellan had done there was die under a mountain of paperwork or die under a mountain of secrets that he was no closer to unravelling despite Cole’s gentle (yet still ominous) reassurances.

Emprise du Lion was near the foot of the Frostbacks, so they made good time and arrived by midday. The breeze was chilly on account of it being blown down from the Frostbacks, and the river had thawed from the warmer climate. If any snow still remained, they were but sad lumps of sludge strewn with dirt and grass. 

But despite the cheery summer air and stray flowers, the town of Sahrnia’s atmosphere remained sullen.

Lavellan shivered at a sudden gust of cold air. “Fuck me, it’s cold."

Bull chuckled.“Yeah, that’s one way to stay warm."

“Your fortress is literally in the snow,” said Ellana.

“It’s not that windy at Skyhold,” Lavellan grumbled.

“Hey, yeah, what’s up with that?” asked Bull. “You’d think it would be, being up on the mountain and all.”

“Ancient elfy magic,” said Lavellan. “Whoever owned it first must have _really_ loved comfort.”

“Or practicality,” quipped Solas.

Ellana snorted and disguised it as her clearing her throat. Lavellan glanced at her.

He was distracted by Hawke’s arrival.

“Inquisitor,” Hawke greeted, walking into the Inquisition camp. She appraised him with an approving hum. “Hey, you actually don’t look half-dead this time.”

“A quarter?” he asked.

“Too generous. A third dead maybe.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it. What’s the situation?”

Hawke’s teasing face grew grim. She updated him on the state of the Emprise: red lyrium mine, Suledin Keep, Red Templars everywhere. Lavellan once again split the group in half. One group to liberate the mines, and his group to fight the Red Templars and reclaim the Emprise. With their tasks assigned, they fanned out.

They soon encountered Michel de Chevin at the edge of Sahrnia and helped him fend off the demons.

Strangely, the raven cloak didn’t impede Lavellan’s movements during combat. It moved and flowed with him.

Once they defeated the demons, Michel nodded in gratitude towards them.

“Ser Michel de Chevin,” mused Lavellan. The Empress’ past Champion who’d been laid off for disobeying her orders during their little escapade at the Crossroads. 

And for lying about his half-elven heritage. Lavellan could sense the blood of the People within him, faint as it was. Another ability granted by the Well.

“Ah, you know of me,” he said, already grimacing. “I saw the Inquisition’s banners from afar though you certainly kept to yourselves for the past few months. Now that the Herald of Andraste himself has appeared, I assume the trouble has increased?”

Lavellan almost frowned at the title. “Unfortunately.”

“As I’d feared… Ah!” He bowed his head. “I have been meaning to thank you. I’ve heard of your efforts to save the Empress’ life and restore stability to Orlais. No matter my mistakes, I still worry about her safety. Thank you, Your Worship.”

Lavellan pressed his lips and nodded, didn’t say, _Yeah, actually, she would’ve died if it weren’t for my spymaster_.

“What is your business here?” asked Lavellan.

“I hunt a demon who calls himself Imshael.”

Right. Imshael.

Solas’ head tilted in interest.

“Imshael, the Forbidden One?” asked Ellana. “ _The_ Imshael? Here?”

“Yes, he’s holed himself up in Suledin Keep. The locals don’t go there, believe it to be the haunt of ancient elven spirits. The keep is guarded by the Red Templars,” said Michel. “As you can see, there is only one of me and a wave of them.”

“We’ll do our best to get rid of most of them,” said Lavellan. “Once it’s safe, head to the keep and we can bring a backup of Inquisition forces.”

He saluted. “At once, Herald.”

Lavellan controlled his expression before it could twist into something sour. “If you please, I prefer Inquisitor.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you. We’ll be back with news. Good, hopefully.”

Michel watched them go, frowning. Lavellan burrowed deeper into his cloak. Herald of Andraste was not a name he’d been called in a while.

So many names…

He was almost glad that they encountered another band of Red Templars since the fighting would at least take his mind off things. 

Almost glad. 

A Red Templar caught him in a deadlock, blades screeching. Shit. He had to get out this before—

A second Red Templar slammed their shield into his side.

Before _that_.

The bone amulet’s barrier triggered and deflected the Red Templar’s next strike. Lavellan pushed himself up, ribs throbbing.

Vergala swooped in and knocked the helm off the shielded Red Templar and harassed them, scratched at their face.

The other Red Templar charged at Lavellan, sword raised high. Lavellan threw out his hook and chain. The chain wrapped around their legs. He pulled and they tripped.

Lavellan rushed in with his daggers.

Bull turned from his recently felled opponent and slammed his axe down on the fallen Templar. The metal of their armour crumpled. The Red Templar stopped moving.

“I had that one!” Lavellan complained, chain retracting back to its canister.

He grinned. “Too slow, Mercy.”

Vergala flew away from the shielded Red Templar she’d been annoying. Lavellan closed in on them instead and slit their now vulnerable neck.

Another Templar lunged for him. He leapt aside.

He slipped on the blood and melted snow over the stones.

_Ah shit._

The Red Templar bore down upon him.

A blur approached in Lavellan’s periphery.

And Solas appeared in front of him in a gust of wind and magic.

He had no time to cast—!

Solas knocked the sword aside with his staff and moved right into a punch. He caught the Templar across the jaw. 

The Red Templar staggered back. Solas smashed his staff against the side of their head and set them alight. They collapsed, already unconscious before they even hit the ground.

That was the last of them.

Solas glanced back at Lavellan, panting. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“You punched a man for me,” said Lavellan, awed.

His look shifted into disbelief. “I have _incinerated_ men for you, and you are more impressed with a punch?”

“They had hardened lyrium on their face! They were holding a _sword_!” Lavellan pushed himself up and grabbed Solas’ hand. “Here, let me see that.”

“It is fine,” muttered Solas. It was not. His knuckles were cut, and rivulets of blood streamed down his swiftly bruising skin. “I can heal it.”

Lavellan took out a clean cloth from one of his pouches and dabbed at it. “You’ve exhausted your mana. I’m not waiting for it to get infected before you can heal it. Come on.” He tugged Solas towards a rock and made him sit, tending to the wounds.

“They’re still like this, huh?” he heard Hawke whisper not-so-subtly to Varric.

Varric shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Lavellan cleaned off the blood, inspected the wounds and made sure no lyrium fragments had gotten into them, and dug into Solas’ pack for bandages. 

“You didn’t tuck your thumb, right?” Lavellan asked.

“I know how to throw a punch, lethallin.”

“That you do,” he said. “Although, please refrain. You’re no pugilist.”

“Perhaps I will take up the profession if ever my current does not work out.”

Lavellan laughed at the mental image. “May as well since Orlesian bard isn’t a good alternative.”

Once he’d wrapped Solas’ knuckles and nagged him into drinking a healing potion, they continued. The task of retaking the camps and turning them into Inquisition bases proved arduous, but they pushed on. 

By sundown, the Inquisition’s banners had replaced the Red Templars’.

Cassandra’s group eventually returned, as weary and haggard as them.

They were about to rest for the day when Ser Michel ran into the camp, distressed, his harried gaze searching frantically. His gaze fell on Lavellan.

“Inquisitor!” he called out and Lavellan met him halfway. Michel leaned on his knees as he caught his breath. “I came to warn you as soon as I could. Imshael knows you are here. He has sent a wave of demons towards the village and they are left defenceless. Please deal with Imshael. I must go to Sahrnia.”

Lavellan frowned, feeling the fatigue in his muscles. They’d all been worn down today. The Red Templars had been tireless and unrelenting. 

But they had no other choice.

“Imshael is your mark,” said Lavellan. “Are you sure?”

Michel shook his head vehemently. “I will not leave people in danger for my own self-serving ends.” The _‘not anymore’_ hung in the air unsaid.

Lavellan regarded him, swallowing back any remarks about Michel’s past status as a chevalier and all its implications. He nodded instead. “Go. Quick.”

His face crumpled in relief. “Maker watch over you, Inquisitor.” Michel turned and Lavellan hurried back to where his companions were resting.

“Change of plans,” he told them. They looked up at him in varying states of weary. “I’m sorry, I know you’re all tired, but the demon in the keep knows we’re here. He’ll keep sending out waves of demons at Sahrnia if we tarry. We have to storm the keep.”

The camp became a bustle of activity as Lavellan directed the Inquisition soldiers and readied them to march.

“How’s everyone?” asked Lavellan.

Bull rolled his shoulders. “Let’s go kick demon ass.”

“What he said,” agreed Hawke.

The Inquisition forces headed for Suledin Keep and battered its doors down, fighting through the throngs of Red Templars within.

But Lavellan had forgotten a crucial detail.

The red lyrium giants.

“Fuck, Sera, move!” Lavellan tackled her out of the flung boulder.

She swore as they tumbled. 

“Vergala,” Lavellan yelled, pushing himself up. “Get reinforcements!” Vergala cawed from above.

“Shit, shit, shit!” said Sera, firing arrow after arrow. To no avail. “My arrows don’t do squat!”

“Antivan fire,” he said. She grabbed the bottle from her hip and lobbed it at the giant. 

The bottle broke and the fire burned, but it couldn’t lick through the waxy surface of its skin.

“Fell it!” shouted Cassandra. 

More Red Templars arrived and swarmed them. Fuck, fuck—

“We must eliminate the Red Templars!” said Solas, casting spell after spell. “They control the giants.”

“And when not under their control, the beast will rampage,” snapped Vivienne, slashed at a nearby Templar with her spirit blade.

“It’s not as if we have much choice!” said Dorian.

Lavellan smashed a flask of ice against his armour. He zipped through the Red Templars and froze them for his companions.

Everything blurred. There was no time to think. All he could do was move, move, move.

But the air was souring. The Inquisition forces were growing fatigued.

Lavellan took a deep breath, felt the burn in his muscles, the air in his lungs, and let out a roar. 

Boost morale. Inspire. That was all he could do for now. 

The others soon joined him. Bull blew on his war horn, joining the crescendo of cries. It stirred his forces, gave them a fresh rush of adrenaline.

And their roars were soon joined by the Inquisition reinforcements. They ripped into the swarm of Red Templars and allowed Lavellan’s team to focus on the giant. 

The melee fighters hacked at its ankles, the mages defending them as the archers annoyed the giant.

With a yell, Bull drove his axe deep into its ankles.

The giant roared and staggered, toppled, spilling blood all over the stones.

It attempted to rise. Hawke and Ellana piled two magic circles atop it and the air shimmered as the force of their magic pinned it down. 

“Move!” Solas ordered, coated in orange wisps. Everyone backed away as Solas summoned a rain of stone and fire upon the giant.

The smell of burned flesh filled the air, but the red lyrium added an artificial tang to the already pungent odour. Lavellan covered his nose with the cloak, eyes watering.

Once Solas’ magic settled and the dust cleared, the giant stayed unmoving. Lavellan panted, sweat over his eyelids, blood in his mouth. He spat it out and wiped his lip with the back of his hand.

His companions staggered. Bull collapsed into a sitting position against the wall and leaned his head back. Vivienne perched herself gingerly on a fallen slab of wall, head against her staff as she caught her breath. Lavellan examined Sera and made sure she wasn’t concussed.

The fight wasn’t over, they knew. They did all they could to recover their strength, passing healing and lyrium potions around. Some of the mages sat in meditative silence to recover their mana.

Once they’d regained their bearings, Lavellan retied his hair, tightened Revasha’s charm around his wrist, picked up his daggers, and turned to the others.

“Ready?” he asked them.

They pushed themselves up.

And they headed into the heart of Suledin Keep.

Lavellan recalled Imshael. He could shift into the forms of different demons, and although they’d ‘defeated’ him, they hadn't been able to kill him. Obviously not. He was a Forbidden One.

But the true danger lay within the choices. Imshael would dig into your head, rearrange it while he was there, and pull out the rawest parts of yourself.

Imshael was waiting for them with an amiable smile as though he were an envoy expecting foreign visitors. Red Templars and Behemoths stood guard by the wall. The large chamber they were in had been laid bare for the sky, the stones eroded by the centuries. It was sunset. The sky was a vicious orange.

“Imshael,” Lavellan greeted, didn’t betray how fatigued he truly was.

Imshael tilted his head, eyes narrowing, but they widened and he gasped in delight. He opened his arms wide as if expecting a hug. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” laughed Imshael. “Isha’bel!”

Lavellan’s blood drained from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh spaghettio.
> 
> I haven't been able to explore Vivienne as much because again, I have to cherry-pick between the companions because there's just too damn many of them, but I try to at least give them a spotlight. Madame de Fer has definitely made her impact on Lavellan too.


	61. Choices of our battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to briefly clear up some confusions last chapter because I forgot to put a translation waha. When Imshael called Lavellan Isha'bel, it was simply a shortened form of Isha'belsal'in. 
> 
> (Fun fact: Shortening it to Isha'bel is actually grammatically dodgy in Elvish so Imshael is purposefully being annoying haha. The proper way to shorten it would be Belsal'in which still keeps the meaning of Many Faces.)
> 
> And another confusion was the Forgotten vs Forbidden Ones, and I share your pain. Those two are confusing why do they both start with F and end with 'en'?
> 
> Forgotten = the 'evil' elven gods dwelling in the Void. Don't know much about them, not encountered in canon  
> Forbidden = 4 elves (presumably) who shed their corporeal form and abandoned the People during an unknown calamity so they were exiled by the Evanuris and are now considered demons. Encountered throughout the DA games/novels.
> 
> Anyway, let's goooo

_desire and decisions_

* * *

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” said Imshael. “Inquisitor, huh? I see you’re still making a job out of being a thorn in people’s backsides. Heard about what happened to you, though. Terrible business, that. But hey, you’re still here!” He made a face. “Oh, but you don’t look too good. You’re—” he gestured vaguely at Lavellan— “a little worse for wear.”

“Inquisitor, you know this demon?” asked Hawke, tense.

Imshael pointedly cleared his throat. “Choice. Spirit,” he insisted.

“I’ve never met him before,” said Lavellan, schooling his expression despite his racing heart. He wracked his memories for _anything_ regarding Imshael, but all he heard was the faint echo of a cackle.

How did Imshael recognise him? The raven cloak? Or maybe he sensed Lavellan’s embodied ideal since most denizens of the Fade now seemed to be able to.

Imshael feigned a hurt look and cradled his hand to his chest. “Oh, you just keep hurting my feelings. Just like that time when you made me think we were _friends_ and then tried to kill me! Oh, I was so _angry_ , I almost wrung your little neck.” Imshael clawed his fingers and shook them, as though strangling somebody.

Lavellan stared at him blankly.

He sighed and raised his arms up in defeat. “But I didn’t since you were friends with such scary people. I wasn’t keen on crossing Dir—”

Ellana shot a streak of lightning at Imshael, the crackle of it drowning out the end of that sentence. Imshael yelped and leapt aside. Lavellan almost collapsed in relief. Creators, he was going to get a heart attack at this rate.

Everyone positioned themselves, ready for combat, but Imshael raised both his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Wait, wait, _wait._ See what I mean about scary friends? Terribly rude, too.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t know you,” Lavellan said and raised his daggers. “But I _am_ here to kill you. As dead as I can make you anyway.”

“Again? Unoriginal. Is stabbing friends a hobby of yours?” Imshael asked.

_Cassandra cried as the blighted blade burned her from the inside—_

“Want to test it?” Lavellan asked darkly.

He waved a hand in disgust. “You know me; I dislike fighting. So ghastly. Why don’t we sit and have a chat?” Imshael glanced at Solas, but he said nothing. Lavellan bit his inner cheek in frustration. So Solas got a pass but Lavellan didn’t?

“Why are Desire demons always so irritating?” Hawke grumbled.

“Desire demon, peh,” scoffed Imshael. “Everyone has desires. Not everybody acts on them. Not everybody makes their _choice_.” He grinned. Too wide. Too much teeth. “What of you, Bel? Will you make your choice? I can see you and your friends look a mite tired. Did the giant give you trouble?”

“Your handiwork, I take it?” Lavellan asked.

“It was a fascinating use of my time. Things were getting boring lately, you see?”

“Right, I’m killing him,” said Hawke, raising her staff.

“Ah ah,” warned Imshael and flicked his wrist. The Red Templar Behemoths turned and faced them in unison. Lavellan eyed the numbers. Too many. “Let’s all take a deep breath, shall we? Bel, I’ll offer a choice, for old times’ sake.”

“I don’t know who that is,” said Lavellan. “And I stand by what I said that I don’t know you.”

Imshael smiled, eyes squinting. “If you let me go, I can give you whatever your heart desires. I will even kill all of the Red Templars in this keep for you as a show of good faith.” He glanced at Lavellan’s bruised, worn, and weary group. “Unless you’d prefer to let them walk out of here with their organs in a tangle. If they walk out at all.”

Cassandra made an enraged and threatening sound and stepped forward. The rest of the soldiers followed, tense and ready to fight, but Lavellan held a hand up, eyes intent on Imshael.

“You cannot possibly be entertaining his demands?” asked Cassandra.

“Hanon, never let Desire demons run their mouth,” warned Ellana. “He’s yapped enough.”

“Wait,” said Lavellan. Imshael was right. Everyone was in no condition to fight in another prolonged melee, especially against such tireless enemies. These Red Templars differed from the ones they’d fought in Therinfal and the Emerald Graves. Everything here fought harder.

“What would you like?” asked Imshael. “Power? Riches? Virgins?”

“Virgins, are you serious?” asked Lavellan.

“There’s a surprisingly high market for it, you know?” He sighed. “But I never have any virgins. Maybe I shouldn’t have offered it.”

Could he trick Imshael somehow? Pretend to comply but then turn his blade at the last minute—

“I can _hear_ you thinking,” Imshael complained. “Always thinking. Look, it’s quite simple. The choice is this: let your friends die, or all of you get to leave relatively unscathed with the bonus of crippling a large portion of Corypheus’ forces! Simple.”

“Inquisitor, we can still fight,” said Cassandra.

“I know,” he said.

Imshael quieted, dark eyes gleaming like the sheen of light on a beetle’s carapace. He appraised Lavellan. “You really do look so broken. Did he tire of you? Or are you lost and wandering now that he’s gone?”

Lavellan fought against the sudden roaring of his blood in his ears and held himself back from charging at Imshael.

“Is that supposed to make sense to me?” asked Lavellan, managing to maintain the unmoved charade. Just barely.

“Stop talking to it!” hissed Sera.

Fuck it, fighting it was. He tightened his grip on his daggers and was about to give the clear—

“I got it!” exclaimed Imshael, eyes sparking in revelation. “Your heart’s desire, I see it better now. Well, dear Bel, what if I told you I could recover what you’re looking for?”

He froze.

Imshael grinned at finally having found a purchase.

“Save yourself the tedium,” Imshael said, meandering towards him. “All that running around must be so exhausting.”

Lavellan pointed his dagger at him to discourage him, but Imshael just kept walking until the tip of the blade rested against his chest.

“I’ve listened to you talk long enough,” said Lavellan.

“Will you really risk losing the chance to get all your answers?” Imshael asked. “And I do mean all. I can do it. Wish it, and it’s yours. You’ve never liked power, riches even less. Silly of me to have offered them in the first place. Dreadful. I should have catered to my dear customers.” He spread out his arms as if he were a merchant displaying his wares. “Information. _Knowledge_. Do I speak your currency now?”

The coil of temptation curled against Lavellan’s cheek. His hand faltered and the dagger lowered slightly.

“Hanon,” Ellana said again, more urgent now. Imshael’s gaze flicked towards them.

“They are so noisy, aren’t they? Why don’t we speak somewhere quieter?”

Before anybody could react, Imshael summoned a thick cloud of dark fog into the area. The others’ distressed shouts muffled, dulled, faded, until it was just him and Imshael surrounded by a dome of dark fog. Despite its darkness, it emitted an eerie, purple glow.

Imshael tilted his head. “Are you finished pretending?”

It could be a trick. The others could still be watching while Lavellan thought themselves hidden away.

“Oh for—” Imshael sighed. “It really is just us. Honestly, always so paranoid. I’ve no interest in revealing you, or the Dread Wolf for that matter.”

Lavellan scowled, pressed the dagger deeper into Imshael’s chest. “Why?”

“Why?” he asked and blinked, unfazed by the dagger. “It’s funny.”

“Funny.”

“Dear Bel, I am a simple creature. I offer choices, then I delight in the chosen options.” He held out both hands, palm-up, and grinned. Too wide for his face and mouth. His beady eyes squinted further, glinted. “So what have you been up to before this whole Inquisitor gig?”

Lavellan stared at him. “You didn’t seriously go through all this trouble just to make small talk, did you?”

“Come now, I haven’t seen or heard from you in a long time. Entertain it a while?”

“No. How did you recognise me?”

“Rather hard to miss spirits of Change when they’re walking the land.”

But Imshael hadn’t said anything the first time Lavellan had met him at Suledin. Asunara _did_ mention something about the Veil’s collapse. Could that be it?

“And honestly,” Imshael continued, “only one spirit of Change would be insane enough to want a body. You all tend to hate this realm.”

“Thought it may have been the cloak that gave me away.”

“Too unreliable. You’re quite the irritant, letting one of your little lackeys wear it occasionally to throw people off your trail.” He paused. “You _do_ remember your little lackeys, right?”

Lavellan didn’t answer that. “Where have you taken me?”

Imshael smiled. “I’ll take that as a no. Don’t you worry, we haven’t moved. In fact, your friends are trying _very_ hard to break through the fog.”

The dark fog shuddered, flashed with lightning. Imshael laughed.

“They don’t know, do they? Who you really are? Imagine the looks on their faces if they find out. Imagine what the Dread Wolf would do.” He stroked his chin in thought. Lavellan’s grip around the dagger tightened. “You didn’t exactly part on good terms, last I heard. There was also something about betrayal in there. Not sure. Wasn’t paying that much attention.”

Lavellan’s heart stopped.

Imshael’s smile widened with sinister glee. Bastard was trying to make Lavellan curious.

Damn him. It was working.

“Do I finally have your full attention?” Imshael asked.

“You really think I’d believe you’re telling the truth?”

“Truth? You want to talk about truth? Alright.” He grabbed the dagger pointed at his chest by the blade. “The truth is simple, Bel. You’re nothing but a grounded raven. Your wings are all torn up and here you are, trying to make castles out of the fallen twigs on the forest floor.”

A manic light sparked in Imshael's eyes and he gripped the dagger, blood trickling as it cut his hand. He grinned.

“But I can give you your wings back! I can help you remember everything you’ve lost. You can _fly again_.”

Lavellan hesitated.

“Aren’t you tired of being uncertain? Of being kept in the dark about your own self? Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“And how exactly are you going to give back my memories?” Lavellan tried pulling his dagger away but Imshael had a solid grip on it. He didn’t let go even as the blade cut deeper into his palm.

“All your memories are huddling in some corner of your mind like scared little ducklings. Some come out when something catches their attention, and that’s when you remember. I’ll just give them a little… nudge. Get them out of their corner.”

“I don’t trust you sticking your fingers in my head.”

Imshael quieted, considering him. He let go of the dagger but Lavellan didn’t relax.

“I’m just offering you choices,” said Imshael. “Here’s how it is, Bel: you let me go and I help you remember everything. I’ll also kill the Red Templars in the keep, as I promised earlier. _Or_ we fight, your friends get themselves killed, and everyone has a terrible time.”

Imshael slung his arm around Lavellan. He had no body heat, only emanating a hollow coldness. Lavellan’s skin crawled and he slapped Imshael’s arm off, backing away with his daggers raised as a warning.

“Good deal, no?” asked Imshael, undeterred. “And sand’s running, Bel. I’ve mobilised the Red Templars since they’re getting so antsy.”

He _what_ —?

Imshael gave a lazy wave of his hand and the fog turned clear, showed his companions locked in a skirmish with the Behemoths. Bull took a hit for Dorian and fell to his knees. Cassandra had fallen, her unconscious body being defended by Solas and Varric. Inquisition soldiers were dying in droves.

Chaos everywhere.

Lavellan looked around him, overwhelmed from the sounds of dying cries and clashing metal and constant movement. His thoughts reeled.

A Behemoth grabbed Ellana and flung her against the hard wall. She crumpled to the ground, unmoving. Blood pooled beneath her.

Bile rose in his throat.

No, no, no. He’d just gotten her back, he’d just saved her life, he couldn’t lose her. Not again. He couldn’t lose his family _again_.

Lavellan moved towards her.

Imshael darkened the fog and Lavellan ran into it as if it were a solid wall. Lavellan staggered back, panic clawing up his throat. The sounds of fighting faded once more.

He needed to get out of here. Ellana could be— And the others—

“I truly don’t understand the hesitation,” said Imshael. “This is the kindest choice I’ve ever presented.”

This wasn’t a choice — he had Lavellan’s arm twisted behind his back. He shouldn’t have let Imshael talk so much, shouldn’t have let him have the time to see so much.

“I have to say,” Imshael said—

“Creators, you don’t shut up, do you?” Lavellan snapped.

“You’re more expressive now,” he continued, unfazed. “Oops, that’s right! You have no memories of the decades’ worth of lessons on how to have a stick up your ass. I quite prefer this, honestly.”

The sounds of fighting filtered in through the fog. Bastard was doing this on purpose. Lavellan couldn’t think past the panicked yells and clashing metal and the Well’s whispers and Imshael’s background chatter filling his ears.

“ _Hanon_ ,” came Ellana’s distraught cry and his chest clenched as ice flooded his lungs. “Help, Hanon! _Ha'ma'lin![1]_”

His heart leapt to his throat. She needed him—

“Cute,” said Imshael. “You have a sister now. What’s that like?”

Images of her unconscious form flashed through Lavellan’s head and his grip tightened on his daggers.

He should accept it. Imshael would call off the attack and everyone would be safe, and all his questions would be answered. No more chasing scraps of his memories and painstakingly reassembling himself until he lost sight of where he ended and began. A promise of certainty.

Ellana’s cry came again. “Han—”

Imshael silenced the area and cut it off, leaving them in the choking quiet.

He had to take the deal. He couldn’t risk it. Ellana was already injured—

Wait.

Didn’t she get thrown against the wall? She was unconscious and bleeding. Nobody was getting up from that so soon, never mind being able to muster enough energy to shout over the fighting.

So which was true? Were the visions of the fighting false? Or were Ellana’s cries false?

How certain could Lavellan be that whatever memories Imshael would help him recover would be true? That they wouldn’t have been tampered with?

But Lavellan couldn’t be sure until he escaped this fog.

He had to make his choice.

“Alright,” Lavellan said, resigned. “Fine. I’ve made my choice.”

Imshael grinned. “Go on.”

Lavellan walked and stopped in front of him. He met Imshael’s amused stare.

“Imshael, I choose—”

Lavellan surged forward, daggers flashing.

He buried one in Imshael’s neck and another in his stomach.

“—to decline,” Lavellan finished and twisted the daggers, yanked them out. Imshael stumbled back and pressed his hands against his injuries.

“So be it,” Imshael gurgled, and the fog collapsed.

Everyone _was_ locked in combat, and the Behemoths and Red Templars were stomping around the place, but the situation wasn’t as dire as Imshael had made it out to be.

A relieved chorus of yells followed Lavellan’s reappearance.

Imshael roared, the wet gurgle morphing into a teeth-grinding shriek. His skin emaciated, stretching over bone as sharp, arachnoid limbs burst from his back. He morphed into a Fear demon.

Lavellan flicked the blood off his daggers and charged at Imshael.

Someone grabbed him by the back of his cloak and yanked him back. Ellana cast her hand out and flung Imshael back with a blast of magic.

She turned and fixed Lavellan an incredulous look. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t go up against him _alone_ ,” she scolded but all he could feel was a dizzying wave of relief. She was fine. She was alive.

“Did you call me ha’ma’lin?” he asked.

“I haven’t called you that since I was ten. Wait, how is this relevant?”

Lavellan slumped in relief. “Never mind.”

Imshael recovered from Ellana’s spell and cackled, rushed at them.

“Isha’bel,” he taunted, “Come face your choice!”

_Creators, keep announcing it to the world, why don’t you?_

He shoved Ellana out of the way. Imshael struck with his many limbs and Lavellan dodged the frenzied hits or deflected them with his daggers.

One limb smacked him in the stomach. Lavellan doubled over, the hit jarring his already sore ribs. The bone amulet barrier activated and deflected the next strikes.

“Lana!” yelled Lavellan, trying to back up.

Three magic circles caged Imshael and the air shimmered. The force of her magic forced Imshael to his knees and pinned him down.

Lavellan fumbled in his pouch and lobbed a grenade of Antivan fire at Imshael. The bottle shattered, set him alight. Imshael shrieked.

That should buy them some time.

Lavellan quickly scanned the battlefield. Commander Rylen was leading the soldiers so Lavellan trusted that they would be fine.

“Vivienne, Varric, Blackwall,” Lavellan called. “Help me with Imshael!”

Those three went to his side. Imshael covered his face and shifted into a Rage demon, absorbing the Antivan fire.

“I am pleased to see you did not listen to the demon,” said Vivienne, staff in one hand and spirit blade in another.

He smiled. “Did you doubt?”

“Of course. We are only mortal. No one is above temptation.”

“I can’t hold him there any longer,” cried Ellana.

“Varric, I need you to keep tripping him up,” said Lavellan. “Mines, traps, anything. Funnel him towards me, Vivienne, and Blackwall.”

“Got it.”

“Ellana, conserve your mana for your highest-damaging spells. We need to keep up a barrage. Never give him a chance to recover.”

Imshael broke free. Ellana and Varric retreated to a safer area.

The strategy worked well enough. Varric manipulated the field, Ellana focused on bursts of high-damaging spells, Blackwall took the damage, and Vivienne sustained her defence as she attacked. They fell into a rhythm.

Imshael morphed into a Pride demon and shot a blast of lightning at them. Vivienne raised a barrier.

The barrier nulled the lightning and shattered. The shards hardened into ice and some managed to pierce into Imshael's carapace. 

“Here’s a choice, Imshael,” Lavellan yelled and rushed in, attacking the damaged parts of the carapace. “Just go the fuck back to the Void.”

He laughed, rumbling and mocking. “What was it you said? _I choose to decline_?” He lashed his whip of lightning. Lavellan dove out of the way.

They were under no illusion that they could kill Imshael, but they could damage him enough that he’d be forced to retreat.

Imshael swept his arm and threw Blackwall against Vivienne.

They went sprawling and struggled to rise.

Imshael raised his arms, ready to smash down with his fists.

_Shit—_

Lavellan threw his hook and chain at the back of Imshael’s head and looped it around a horn. He propelled forward. His momentum helped bury his daggers through the thick hide. Lavellan wrenched and twisted the blades as best as he could.

Imshael roared, attempted to shake Lavellan off.

The blades cracked.

Oh no.

Imshael started backing into the wall.

Lavellan unlooped the chain and jumped off Imshael's back so wouldn't become paste.

Imshael hit the wall and roared. It must have driven Lavellan’s daggers even deeper. Imshael scrambled at his back but couldn’t reach the daggers.

Weapon — Lavellan needed a new weapon. He looked around frantically, overwhelmed once more at the mess of limbs waving about everywhere as they fought and the quick flashes of metal, magic, and lyrium.

He glanced at Varric and Ellana for help, but they were fighting off a Behemoth.

Lavellan scanned the area for any fallen weapons.

Sounds of the surrounding melees in his ears, smell of artificial lyrium and metal and the signature sweet lightning of magic in his lungs.

Imshael shifted back into a Fear demon and rushed towards Lavellan with an enraged screech.

Weapon, weapon—

Sword.

Lavellan dove for the fallen sword, scrambled up in time to parry one of Imshael’s many limbs.

The sword’s weight was awkward in his hands, but his body remembered enough to keep him alive.

Thank his old demon spawn of a Warleader for forcing him to train with swords.

Lavellan gritted his teeth and put his back into the next strike, managed to sever one of the limbs. The sword continued in its momentum and dealt a cut across Imshael’s torso.

Imshael retaliated with a slash across Lavellan’s side. The barrier from the bone amulet flared once more.

“Getting tired, Bel?” Imshael crooned.

Lavellan couldn’t answer, pressed one hand to his wound. He regathered his breaths as the barrier granted him a short reprieve.

Until Imshael shattered it.

Lavellan tried to dodge but the muscles in his legs locked in place.

_No—_

A golden figure approached in Lavellan’s periphery.

And they rammed their shield into Imshael with a battle cry, a lion's head embossed on their breastplate.

“Ser Michel,” Lavellan said, breathless from either the shock or the fatigue. Likely both.

“Inquisitor, I am here to lend my assistance.” He passed Lavellan a healing potion.

Lavellan laughed, a little woozy as he took it. “Oh good,” he said.

Ser Michel engaged Imshael while Lavellan downed the potion, rummaging through his pouches for the last roll of the bandages. He wrapped his wound haphazardly and took a step, ignoring the searing lances of pain from the cut.

Together, he and Michel pushed Imshael back.

And little by little, the Inquisition whittled away at the Behemoth’s numbers. More forces could focus on Imshael.

“Return to the abyss, demon,” Michel spat. “You are outnumbered.”

Imshael dodged Michel’s slash and danced away from the other soldiers with a laugh, his front a weave of oozing cuts.

“So it seems. We’ve had a fun party,” Imshael said and fixed his eyeless face at Lavellan. “Here’s a parting gift. Just for you.”

He turned and rushed at Solas, who felled the last of the Behemoths. His back was exposed.

Fuck—

Lavellan smashed a flask of lightning over himself for speed and sprinted. He cried out a warning.

Solas turned, already gearing for a spell, but no, he wouldn’t make it.

One of Imshael’s limbs struck.

Lavellan came between them.

The sharp limb glanced off Lavellan’s breastplate, followed the slope of it and screeched against the metal.

Stabbed through his shoulder instead.

Lavellan jerked back at the force of it, bit down on his cry and hacked that limb clean off. He followed through with a stab into Imshael’s neck.

Imshael raised his remaining limbs, ready for another strike—

Solas grabbed Imshael’s face and flooded a concentrated spill of lightning into him. The overwhelming press of magic staggered Lavellan but Solas supported him. The lightning brightened.

“Leave,” bid Solas.

Imshael cackled, though the sound was thin.

“How sweet,” he mocked. His body crumbled into wisping fragments of black and emerald until Lavellan’s sword was left stabbing through empty air. Black blood dripped down the blade. The last of Solas’ lightning fizzled away.

Lavellan dropped the sword with a clang. He staggered back, bowled over by the sudden rush of dizziness, and only stayed upright because of Solas.

There was no breath in anyone left to cheer. Not after a harrowing fight, not after bodies of their comrades lay bleeding over the stones.

Solas gently set him down into a sitting position. He grabbed the severed limb still protruding out of Lavellan’s shoulder and attempted to pull it out, but that triggered a flash of hot white pain. Lavellan cried out. Solas stopped and examined it.

“It will be quicker to push it through rather than pull it out,” said Solas. “But that will damage the area further.”

Lavellan couldn’t move his arm. Left arm.

Panic clogged his throat.

“Get it out, just get it out,” Lavellan said through clenched teeth.

Solas grabbed the severed limb on the sharp, tapered end and braced his hand against Lavellan’s shoulder.

“On three,” said Solas. “One—”

He pulled it out.

“Dread Wolf’s fucking ballsack!” Lavellan clutched at the wound that now felt as if it was on fire, but the movement pulled on the cut on his side. He hissed at the double wave of pain. “You son of a bitch, you said three!”

“The tendon has been damaged but I believe I can heal it,” said Solas and took Lavellan’s hand off it so he could take a closer look. Solas hovered his glowing hand over the wound, but his magic spluttered. He scowled.

“Your mana is exhausted,” said Lavellan, lightheaded. “It’s alright. Just—”

“It is not alright.”

“This isn’t enough to kill me.”

“Do you think I enjoy seeing you hurt?”

Lavellan scanned the aftermath of the battle. “Get someone— to Vivienne. She collided with Blackwall. Blackwall’s walking metal.”

The Inquisition healers arrived in droves. Vergala perched beside Lavellan.

“Healers,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, grinned, a little out of sorts. “Oh, you’re so clever. Good on you. You’re wonderful.”

“You are losing blood,” muttered Solas as he flagged one of the healers. “Get me a lyrium potion,” he told them.

Lavellan shot him a confused look. “You hate lyrium potions.”

“It matters not. They are necessary.”

The healer returned with two lyrium potion bottles.

 _Fen’Harel agent_ , Lavellan noted foggily. Said agent worked on cleaning Lavellan’s wound as Solas finished the potions. Solas made a face but shook his head.

“Solas—”

“Hush. Lie back.” He set Lavellan down with care, even took his coat off and folded it so it would cushion Lavellan’s head. Lavellan couldn’t suppress his smile.

This time, Solas’ magic answered.

“This may hurt,” warned Solas.

“I’ve had worse,” said Lavellan.

He weathered through the pain and discomfort as Solas healed the wound. The sky was darkening above them.

“Hanon!” Ellana’s face swam into his view and she knelt beside him. “Do you need help?” she asked Solas.

“How are you with healing spells?”

“Enough to patch up the other one. I’ll leave that one to you.”

“That will do, thank you.”

Their conversation dulled in his ears and black invaded the edges of Lavellan’s vision. Everything hurt. He wanted to sleep.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Someone set him down gently onto a soft surface.

Lavellan opened his eyes blearily, eyelids feeling stiff and heavy. Actually, his entire body felt stiff and heavy. It was dim around them.

Someone pulled a blanket over him and brushed his hair off his forehead. He couldn’t see them too well.

Lavellan whispered, “Dirthamen?”

The figure leaned closer to hear him better. Lavellan finally caught the colour of their eyes. Crystalline.

“Solas,” he murmured and closed his eyes. Oh, that was fine. He was safe here too.

Solas murmured something in return but Lavellan fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petition for Lavellan to stop getting himself stabbed because of an ancient elven god.
> 
> Chapter hasn't been beta-read so apologies for the dodgy action scene.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Ha'ma'lin:** Big brother[⇧]


	62. Answers out of reach

_decode the open book_

* * *

_Fitful. Flames._

_There would be no mercy for him._

_Lavellan met the righteous, rigid face beyond the walls of fire._

_“For crimes against the empire—"_

Lavellan woke up coated in an unbearable heat that slowly vanished as he regained full cognition.

What the hell was that?

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and turned his head, found Ellana and Solas conversing in a corner, their faces grim.

“Is this a funeral?” rasped Lavellan, wincing as he slowly pushed himself up, his stiff limbs protesting the action. He must be bruised and injured to the Void and back.

Ellana’s expression lit up in relief at his voice and she made her way over, helped him sit up.

“Take it easy,” she said.

Someone had taken off his armour which left him in a loose shift, the fabric sticking to his sweat-coated skin. They’d also wrapped his torso with bandages. His raven cloak was folded at the foot of the bed, and he almost missed Vergala asleep atop it since she blended in with the feathers.

“You two looked very solemn back there,” said Lavellan. “Did something happen?”

“You were impaled by an ancient demon,” said Solas. He crossed his arms and pressed his lips in displeasure. “Is that not enough to warrant worry?”

“When you say it with that face, anything sounds serious.”

“You were bleeding out and you could have lost functionality of your arm.”

Lavellan paused. He rolled his left shoulder, lifted the arm, and flexed his fingers. Still mobile. No bandages or scarring. Solas must have healed it well.

“Thank you for healing me,” Lavellan mumbled.

Solas’ stern look softened. “And thank you for defending me. I only wish the cost had not been this.”

“Well, I’m still alive.”

“Lethallin, most people go their lives without being stabbed.”

Lavellan almost laughed. He’d gotten stabbed twice, and yet that still wasn’t the most eventful thing to happen to him.

“Most people,” said Lavellan. He looked down, wrung the blanket between his fingers. “I’m sorry. I know I promised to be careful, then I go off battling an ancient Desire demon with a _sword_. A fucking sword, Solas. Do I look like a sword person to you?” His daggers had been broken too. He hoped they were still stuck in Imshael’s back and giving him grief.

“Guess who’s smug in their grave?” mused Ellana.

Lavellan grumbled beneath his breath. “Don’t start. I can feel him giving me that smug look of his. And he’s buried all the way in the Marches.”

“Who is this?” asked Solas.

“The previous Warleader, Hanathir. He was the one who trained me. He always made me practice with a sword even though I preferred the daggers.”

“That was pragmatic of him."

Lavellan opened his mouth to complain more, but his stomach grumbled and startled everyone in the room. Ellana snorted.

Solas smiled. “I will see if I can procure some food for you.” He glanced at Ellana. “Don't let him leave the room.”

“I’ll knock him out if he does.”

“Hey!” said Lavellan.

Solas chuckled and left them, the door clicking softly behind him.

Lavellan stared at the door, chewing on his lip. He’d expected Solas to start grilling him for answers immediately, but maybe he was holding off since Lavellan had just woken up.

But those were problems for later. He glanced at Ellana.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly, remembering the pure dread and panic he’d felt when Imshael had deceived him.

“Bruised ribs, but I’ll manage.” She frowned. “I’ve… never been in a battle that intense before.”

His grip tightened around the blanket. “I’m sorry. I know they can be a lot. If you want to skip out on them—”

She shook her head. “I can handle myself just fine. It’s just… You’ve been doing things like this? For how long?” Her voice went quiet. “How many times have you had death hanging over your head?”

He’d lost count. Lavellan gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m used to them, it’s fine.”

“You’re _used_ to them?” She rubbed her face. “Fenedhis. You shouldn’t have had to get used to them in the first place.”

Lavellan sighed to himself and shuffled to the side, patting the spot beside him. She sat, fiddling with her sleeves.

“What did Imshael offer you?” she asked.

“All of my memories back,” he said. “And promising that he’d leave peacefully which would keep everyone safe.”

“Knowledge and others’ safety. He really got your desires nailed down.”

“I shouldn't have let him talk so much. It gave him the time to study me."

"I did tell you," she sighed. "But then again, he's good at that, right? Knowing how to appeal to you so you keep listening to him."

"What did everyone make of Imshael recognising me?” he asked, apprehensive.

“I think most just dismissed it as creepy demons being creepy demons. Most people don’t want to dwell on something they don’t understand. Your defeat of Imshael is the more common topic. Soldiers’ tales and all.” She drummed her fingers on her thighs. “But you may have made a few of your friends suspicious.”

“They’re already suspicious.” He leaned back against the headboard.

“I’d watch out for Solas,” said Ellana. “He’s been observing you a little more closely ever since the temple. He’s also been subtly prying about your past during our lessons.”

“What about?”

“They’re just casual questions. He always frames it as being curious about our Dalish upbringing. I try not to reveal too much, but even that reveals something.” She grimaced. “Honestly, he stresses me out sometimes. But he _is_ very knowledgeable.”

He stared at her. Had she figured Solas out yet?

“How are your lessons progressing?” he asked.

“Good. It’s a little complicated, but Solas has been showing me a few tricks that the ancient elves once used to make the process easier. I also asked him if he could teach me how to reach another mage’s dream even if they’re far away.”

He frowned. “How come?”

“I want to speak to Keeper Deshanna myself. Try to get you the first Keeper’s journal as soon as possible. And…” She rubbed the back of her neck and shot him a small smile. “And maybe I could drag you along one day and you can talk to the Keeper too.”

His heart warmed and he smiled back. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Vergala stirred from her sleep and woke up. She gave a little caw once she saw him and hopped over, settling on his lap. He patted her crest.

“I’ve been hunting Fen’Harel in my dreams,” Ellana said softly. Lavellan stopped. “But he never confronts me. If I do catch him, he wakes me up.”

“What are you after?”

“Payback, I suppose.”

Lavellan gently played with the ends of Vergala’s feathers. “I already made him pay. And I didn’t feel any better.”

She looked away, staring at the far wall with a blank expression, but there’s a bitter light in her eyes.

“I genuinely enjoy learning from him, you know?” she said. “And I think he enjoys teaching me, but every time, I’m reminded that it could all be an act on his end. I don’t ever want to think of him as a friend.”

Lavellan froze. He slowly looked up at her.

“Why do you look so surprised?” she asked. “The clues were all there. They’re painfully obvious if you know where to look.”

He huffed out a soft laughter to himself. “I felt like an idiot once I figured it out. It took me a while.”

“Well, love is blind.”

“Or it was too much of a leap to assume your friend is the trickster god.”

“Fen’Harel comes in friendly forms. You’d always bragged that you’d know if it was Fen’Harel or not. Remember that?”

Lavellan grimaced. “I was thirteen and full of false confidence.”

“Who knows? Maybe you would’ve figured it out if you hadn’t fallen for him. You have terrible taste in men, by the way.”

He laughed. Ellana smiled, reaching over to pat Vergala, but her smile vanished as a contemplative look settled over her face.

“I’ll stop hunting him,” she promised and looked up at him, eyes sharp. “But the moment he hurts you again, I’ll see to it that my arrow punches clean through his throat.”

“What if I’m the one who ends up hurting him?” he murmured.

She blinked in surprise, but she didn’t get the chance to respond because the door opened and Solas returned with a tray piled high with fruit and bread and small wheels of cheese. Ellana easily shifted into her easy-going demeanour.

“Did you bring an entire banquet or something?” she asked.

Solas set the tray down on the bedside table. “When I mentioned it was for the Inquisitor, the cooks piled more food upon the tray. It was hardly my fault.”

“You could’ve just walked right along.”

Lavellan scowled. “It almost sounds as if you don’t want me to eat.”

“You’re getting pampered,” she said.

“I just got stabbed!”

“Where’d your big, macho, ‘I’m fine, I’ve had worse’ speech go?” she teased. “Look at him, Solas. He’s being a baby when it suits him.”

“I disown you,” said Lavellan.

“Too bad, I did it first.” Ellana snorted and stood. “Well, I need to go check up on a few of the injured. I promised Sister Azalia that I’d help her. I’ll be back in a bit!” She waved at them with a small smile and left the two alone, closing the door behind her.

Well, that was a rather abrupt exit.

“Your sister is wary around me,” noted Solas after a few beats of silence.

“What gave you that impression?”

“She has an agitated presence in the Fade whenever we have lessons.” He sat where Ellana had and smiled softly at Vergala being petted by Lavellan. “Or it could be that she has been through much and is leery of trusting others. I suppose I mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

“She said she enjoys learning from you. I wouldn’t worry.”

Solas merely hummed in response.

Neither of them said anything for a while, but Lavellan could see that Solas was thinking, judging by the look in his eyes.

“Imshael called you a peculiar name,” said Solas.

Here it came. Lavellan’s mouth dried but he showed no outward reaction.

“It was grammatically incorrect at that,” Lavellan said.

Solas let out a small, surprised bark of laughter. “Yes, I suppose it is strange to call someone ‘innumerable men.’”

“He seemed unhinged. I wouldn’t take anything he says seriously. He’s quite slippery.”

Solas stared at him, then glanced at the raven cloak at the foot of the bed. He frowned to himself. Lavellan tensed slightly.

“You mumbled something in your sleep,” said Solas.

“Did I?”

“It sounded like…” He paused. Lavellan’s pulse picked up. What did he say? He remembered waking up briefly, but he couldn’t remember what he did or said. Solas shook his head. “No, it was too soft for me to discern.”

“Probably something really stupid,” said Lavellan, offered Solas a grin.

Solas smiled back but it felt more like a courtesy than a sincere smile. “Probably,” he agreed. “What did Imshael tempt you with?”

“The prospect of everybody’s safety. He showed me false visions of my friends struggling to fight just to rattle me.”

“And the knowledge?” He looked Lavellan in the eye. “He offered information.”

Lavellan returned his gaze, steady. “Everyone wants information.”

“Your sister seeks a spirit of Knowledge.”

“The world is being threatened by a supposed god,” said Lavellan. “We’d all like to be armed with information that could delay the possible end of the world.”

Lavellan caught the ghost of a smile on Solas’ lips. Gone with a blink. He figured Solas would appreciate the double meaning.

“You really think Imshael and I are acquainted?” Lavellan asked.

“I never know what to think when it comes to you."

“Not an answer, though I’m flattered.”

“Do you enjoy being perplexing?”

Lavellan fiddled with a thread fraying from his blanket. “Better than being an open book. I can’t afford to be one.”

“Do you wish you were?” asked Solas, his voice growing softer.

“I wish I was in a situation where I was able to be one,” he said, glanced at Solas. “Do _you_ wish you were an open book?”

“I wish people cared to open the book,” he murmured. Smiled. “Simultaneously, I wish for them to leave the book well alone. Some books are best left closed.”

“Ah. Forbidden book, are you?”

“Esoteric.”

“I’m good at opening things best left closed.”

“Using a brick, I presume?”

Lavellan burst into laughter and startled Vergala. Solas did smile sincerely this time.

“It was efficient and effective,” said Lavellan.

“Eat.”

Lavellan grinned, gently placed Vergala down beside him and grabbed the platter of food. They shared the bread and cheese as they moved onto safer topics such as the state of the Inquisition and Suledin Keep. A few of his friends visited once the news of him waking up had spread. The room became rowdy as the numbers grew.

He could feel a few of them watching him, trying to figure him out. Namely Varric, Bull, and Vivienne. They didn’t bring anything up though.

Once Lavellan felt well enough to get up and move around, Solas and Vivienne gave him the clear to leave the room but barred him from any strenuous activities.

He dressed in more suitable clothes, donned his raven cloak and stepped outside.

There was still much to be done within Suledin Keep. Most of them were managerial tasks, but he also visited a few of the soldiers to thank them.

As the afternoon fell, Lavellan retreated to a less occupied corridor within the keep and followed it to a small overlook to take a break. He stared out at the rest of Emprise, the land looking as if it was bleeding due to the remaining influences of the red lyrium. It would take a while to recover. Maybe even years.

Uneven footsteps approached behind him. Lavellan turned.

“Inquisitor,” greeted Michel. He was limping slightly.

“Ser Michel,” Lavellan returned.

He chuckled to himself, a little self-deprecatingly. “You’ve been calling me that, but I’m afraid I’m no longer a ser. I have not been in a while.”

Lavellan examined him a little more closely. He couldn’t have been that much older than Lavellan. In the previous timeline, Michel had helped in the fight against Solas, although Lavellan couldn’t be sure whether he was present for the final battle or not.

“Your leg?” asked Lavellan.

“Just a sprained ankle. You suffered the more grievous injury.” His expression twisted, and he bowed his head in shame. “I apologise for my late arrival. Thank you for your assistance with Imshael.”

“Thank you as well. You came at an opportune moment. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could’ve held out against him.”

“I am glad. Although I'm also deeply ashamed that you’ve had to fix my folly.” He raised his head, frowning. “It was my mistake which led to Imshael being freed to roam the world. I had sworn to correct it and yet… And yet I once again had to leave it to more capable hands.”

“It couldn’t be helped. When it came down to it, your first instinct was to protect instead of claim glory.”

“I was never here to claim glory. Only to fix my wrongs.”

Lavellan didn’t know how to respond to that. An awkward few seconds of silence passed.

He glanced at Michel’s lion-embossed breastplate. “You were a chevalier?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan fell silent for a long moment, but it was more pensive than awkward.

“I haven’t had good experiences with chevaliers,” said Lavellan.

Michel merely nodded. “Many are more concerned with appearances or power, but some are truly honourable. I am sorry you have had to interact with those who would give the chevaliers and our code of honour a bad name.”

Code of honour. What did that matter? Once you were a chevalier, that meant you had passed the final trial that the Academy gave. To 'test your blade' against supposed lowlifes in the slums. Most, if not all of the time, that was but a lie and the chevaliers would instead slaughter innocents.

No chevalier was honourable.

“What is the final test, Michel?” Lavellan asked, voice and expression turning hard.

Michel looked down.

“How many?” Lavellan asked. _How many elves have had to pay with their blood for your honour?_

Softly, he answered, “Five.”

“Five," Lavellan repeated, almost whispering. He looked away. “Your honour is founded on blood and I do not acknowledge it.”

“I had no other choice, Inquisitor. My entire identity was already— I was in a precarious position.”

Because Orlais was no friend to the elves. Someone with elven blood would not have been accepted into the Academy.

“A nobleman saw me fighting and thought I deserved a chance," said Michel. "He risked his reputation to craft a false identity for me so that I may enter the Academy. It was my chance at a better life. A chance to live a fulfilling life dedicated to protection and valour. I seized it."

Lavellan rubbed his face. And he couldn’t begrudge Michel for seizing that chance at a better life. It was better than wasting away in the slums.

Michel clenched his hands at his sides. “And every day, the deception felt like a sword resting at the back of my neck. It could be used against me, against the empress, if it was ever found out. If I hesitated at the final trial, everything that had been sacrificed to get me there would have been for nothing.” He shook his head. “Inquisitor, I know you hold no fondness for me, but I have a strong arm and a stout heart, and I still care for Orlais. If you will allow me, I would like to help the Inquisition in whatever capacity I can.”

“When I accepted the mantle of Inquisitor and raised the sword, I pledged to care for all,” said Lavellan. “No matter their country, no matter their origins, no matter their heritage. If you wish to join the Inquisition, you will have to care for more than just Orlais.”

He squared his shoulders and met Lavellan’s gaze with a solemn stare. “As I’ve said, my heart is stout. My shield belongs to those who require it.”

Lavellan regarded him, the grave and determined set of his expression reminiscent of something. Someone.

“I’ve made the Inquisition a place where you are judged by your current actions rather than the blood in your veins or your past transgressions,” said Lavellan. “So long as you act in the same manner and you don’t continue your wrongdoings. It won’t be easy. There are many elves, and even humans within the Inquisition who have suffered under the hands of the chevaliers. You are welcome in the Inquisition, but you have your work cut out for you.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

Lavellan pursed his lips, thinking over his next words. “And I can’t erase the years of fear and shame you've suffered, and still suffer, and I know any sentiments I tell you to be proud of your heritage will ring hollow. But if you ever wish to explore your elven heritage, I and a few others are more than willing to share our stories.”

“How did you— I never specified I was—” He couldn’t finish the rest of his sentence, looking as if a mage had encased him in a sheet of ice. 

Lavellan softened his gaze and laid a gentle hand on Michel's shoulder. “It’s alright. I made the deduction on my own, and I won’t share it with anybody else. That’s up to you.”

Michel looked down again, frowning to himself. “I suppose hiding it doesn’t matter now. I’ve already been disgraced for my deception.” He raised his head. “The only way left to go is up.”

It wasn’t the response Lavellan had expected.

Then again, those driven by duty knew how to return and rise, rearing and ready.

Something about this struck him as familiar again.

Michel bowed and Lavellan retracted his hand. “I have preparations to make. Thank you for the opportunity, Inquisitor. I will try to be worthy of it.” He paused. “And… I will keep your other words in mind.”

“Farewell, Michel.”

He nodded and turned to leave, made it a few paces forward, but stopped. A warm, summer breeze blew past.

“I was afraid of them too, once,” confessed Michel. “The chevaliers. How they would ride in on horses and kill us in the slums. I wonder what the younger me would have thought of who I am now.” He smiled back at Lavellan. "Forgive me, just... thinking out loud."

Michel walked away. Lavellan stared at his back, unsure of what to make of anything. He sighed and faced the expanse of the Emprise below him once again.

What would the younger Lavellan think of him now, too? He'd be scared, likely.

Lavellan was still scared.

Vergala arrived and perched on his shoulder.

“People are strange, aren’t they?” he murmured. She cawed. “Strange little things.”

Lavellan thought of the fiercely determined look on Michel’s face and frowned, feeling as if he’d seen that look on someone else before. That same look of ferocious resolve. On whom? Cassandra? Yes, but also... someone else... Someone just as steadfast, just as persevering.

> _“This is all I am,” he says, golden eyes firm behind the mask. “I am the El’amelan’s defender. I am your shield.”_
> 
> _Lavellan clasps his shoulder. “You are more than a shield. You are a friend.”_

He blinked, chasing after the memory, but it faded with a whisper. 

Who was that? There was something familiar about their eyes and voice, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Someone from the El'amelan, from the sounds of it. Its defender?

Lavellan sighed and leaned against the stone railing. Vergala hopped down to rest beside his arm.

Oh well, the memory would come in due time. In a manageable pace, hopefully. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t taken Imshael’s offer. Asunara _had_ warned him about overwhelming himself with memories, so retrieving them all at once would probably do his head in.

Speaking of Imshael, Lavellan needed to send some of the tissue samples from the red lyrium giant to Dagna. Figure out how the hell Imshael had managed to pull off corrupting a giant. The studies Solas had conducted had also revealed that the ancient magic on the site could augment the properties of red lyrium, hence the hardier Templars.

Mixing red lyrium with ancient elven magic created such a volatile reaction. Was there a link? There must be.

“Red lyrium is blighted lyrium,” he murmured. “Because it’s a living thing.” The blood of the Titans. The Evanuris had poisoned the Titans to win the war.

But what was that poison? What did they use?

_The world would end from malice._

And malice was another word for poison.

Lavellan’s face fell.

“What did they use?” he whispered furiously to himself. Someone else besides Solas had to know. Asunara? No, she said she wasn't sure either. She said she would look into the memories she’d collected—

Memories.

Lavellan had been present during the war with the Titans. Granted, he was watching Dirthamen, but it didn’t matter, Lavellan had still been _there_. And surely a weapon that could debilitate the Titans would have been a well-kept secret, and who else had Lavellan served but the god of secrets? It was possible that Dirthamen had shared the information with him.

Either way, Lavellan could have known what it was. Or at least had some insight on it.

He chewed on his lip, shared a look with Vergala.

He needed his memories back. Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil recovery chapter, as a treat. I've put you all through the wringer for a while what with the memory bombs, then cliffhanger, then high tension action scenes lmao. Have a breather. 
> 
> The Arbor Wilds are coming up, but we just need to get through a few more things before we can get there ;)


	63. Here to stay

in the pigments of home

* * *

The Inquisition spent another week or so cleaning up the mess the Red Templars had left behind in Emprise and helping the people of Sahrnia get back on their feet. Once they’d sorted things out, most of the Inquisition’s forces rode back to Skyhold while the rest remained to continue helping Emprise.

Lavellan took the tissue samples to Dagna and informed her that he’d left his daggers buried in the back of a primordial Desire demon, ready for a chewing out or a disappointed sigh from her or Harritt.

Harritt only said, “Serves it right.” Dagna didn’t seem all that saddened either because she dragged Lavellan to her workstation and showed him the early stages of his old daggers’ replication. The ones he’d found in the temple.

What had broken them in the first place?

“I’ll have it ready within a month,” she promised. “Also, I heard that Sister Nightingale got the crystals back from Calpernia. You may want to have a look at that.”

“Thank you, Dagna. Don’t feel too pressured to hurry with the daggers.”

“No pressure at all! It’s fascinating, actually. See, the metal used seems to be an alloy of veil quartz and something else but I’m having trouble figuring out what. If I can cross-reference…” She trailed off and mumbled to herself and Lavellan took that to mean the end of their conversation. He chuckled to himself and threw a soft farewell over his shoulder.

He headed for the rookery, found Leliana sitting at the table, staring intently at the memory crystal. She looked up at his arrival.

“Have you watched it?” he asked.

“Not yet. I was waiting for you.” She tapped the crystal and the teal wisps of Calpernia and Corypheus materialised in front of them.

“If I can commence my preparations at the Shrine of Dumat—” started Calpernia.

“No,” Corypheus cut off.

Her fists clenched at her sides. “Yet you would allow the Red Templars free reign of it.”

“Are you questioning me?” he challenged and Calpernia quieted. Corypheus turned and walked away. “If you cannot prepare in the presence of distractions, then perhaps you are not fit to be the Vessel. I will hear no more complaints of this.”

Calpernia fumed to herself, but they couldn’t watch any further because she found the crystal and destroyed it.

Leliana hummed as the teal wisps dissipated. “Corypheus does not want her there,” she noted.

Because her old master was there, in the prototype of the binding spell that Corypheus intended to use on Calpernia. Strange though, that he would let Samson’s Templars inside.

“I spoke with Commander Cullen,” said Leliana. “Our agents have found Samson’s remaining Red Templars escorting a supply caravan in the wilderness. Could this be close to the shrine that Calpernia spoke of?”

“Highly likely. I need to talk to Cullen and organise a company of soldiers if that’s the case. If we’re successful, we’ll find something to weaken Samson’s armour, and whatever it is Corypheus is hiding from Calpernia.”

He organised the campaign with Cullen, and they rode out to the shrine a few days later with a company of soldiers. The Shrine of Dumat was infested with Red Templars when they arrived.

Cullen did his best to be subtle, but Lavellan could tell he was trying to stop Lavellan from fighting. Or at least minimise the amount of fighting he had to do.

Lavellan would feel babied on any other occasion, but Cullen had a way of doing it that made Lavellan touched instead. So he didn’t bring it up, and only nodded at Cullen in thanks.

Samson wasn’t in the shrine, and his Tranquil friend killed himself so they couldn’t acquire information about Samson, but Erasthenes _was_ still in the locked chamber along with a few clues about Samson’s armour that they could take back to Dagna.

Lavellan questioned Erasthenes and then put him out of his misery.

They returned to Skyhold with their new information.

Successfully attacking one of Corypheus’ prominent bases of operations had bolstered the soldiers’ morale, hope in their voices as they spoke of the Inquisition’s future march to the Arbor Wilds.

Lavellan could feel the time running.

An uneasy feeling twisted in his gut.

_Two months left._

* * *

Lavellan climbed up to his room, feeling the beginning of a headache as he leafed through a report in his hand. He threw it down once he reached his desk, pulling a face at the stack of paperwork waiting for him, but a bright package resting beside the inkwell caught his attention. He picked it up. It was a roll wrapped in red and gold halla wool.

His mood brightened. Clan Venalin’s colours. He removed the cloth, revealing a letter wrapped around an engraved halla antler, decorative patterns carved into its surface. Lavellan spent a while admiring the details, then settled down to read the letter.

> _Hahren,_
> 
> _How do you start a letter? I don’t know. Hello? Hope you like the carved antler. Just a little thank-you gift from the clan. We also arranged to send something to Clan Lavellan. Supplies and all that._
> 
> _I’m Warleader now. Ceremony went well. Actual leading’s a little hard, especially because I’m kind of bossing my friends around? They’re not really used to taking me all that seriously and I feel like a bit of a prick with a stick up my ass when I tell them to be serious._

Lavellan continued with the rest of the letter, smiling and laughing at the anecdotes, and growing sombre at the more vulnerable parts.

The end of the letter had an addendum: _If you get the time, can you carve another tiger? Maybe something I can wear that won’t get in the way._

He mulled over his response for a long time and wrote it down. Hopefully it would be helpful. He glanced at the hunting charm around his wrist and smiled again.

Rather than do his paperwork, he planned Revasha’s next carving instead. He could send the completed piece back with his response as a little surprise.

Around noon, his door flew open, banging against the stone wall. Lavellan jumped in his seat, already reaching for something he could use as a weapon—

“Quisitree!” hollered Sera. She poked her head up from the stairs, eyes squinting from her smile.

“Creators, Sera,” he breathed and forced himself to relax despite his racing heart. “Knocking is free.”

She blew a raspberry. “No time. Guess what?” She held up a small bag and shook it. “Guess.”

He opened his mouth—

“Chocolate bits!” she yelled in glee, didn’t even let him finish. “Wanna snack on them? Or throw them at bigwigs?”

It’d been a while since he’d spent time with Sera. Almost getting crushed by a giant together didn’t count.

He was about to agree, but a better idea struck him.

“I’ve got something else in mind,” he said and carefully put aside the sketches for Revasha’s pendant (he decided a pendant would be the best choice). He stood and walked towards her, taking off his cloak because things were about to get messy. “Want to bake with me?”

She frowned. “Only thing I do in kitchens is borrow food.”

“Borrow food,” he snorted, left his cloak on the couch. “It’s not borrowing if it ends up in your stomach. There’s no coming back from that.”

“Still borrowing. Won’t get it back though.”

“Yeah, most people call that stealing. They might even call that a crime.”

“Most people are stupid.”

He descended the stairs and she followed.

“So what’s knocking in your head?” she asked.

“We’re going to bake cookies.”

That stopped her.

He stopped as well and smiled gently at her. “You had pride cookies. Want to see what a Sera and Hanon cookie looks like?”

Sera stared at the bag of chocolate bits in her hand. “Brown as shite, probably,” she said, but her body language turned a little more reserved.

“We don’t have to,” he said. “We can just sit on the roof that smells like bird shit and eat chocolate bits that are going to melt all over our hands.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, then shrugged. But she still oozed apprehension. “Mean, could always blame you when it goes tits up.”

He grinned and slung his arm around her shoulders, made their way to the small kitchen below the Hall. Lavellan waved at the cook and kitchen hands present there and explained their plan. Soon enough, the ingredients sat waiting in front of them on the table. He rolled his sleeves.

“Ready?” he asked Sera. She squinted at the recipe book.

“Writing’s all tiny.” She slammed the book shut. “Who needs that? We’ll do it ourselves.”

Lavellan laughed.

 _Sera tossed the book over her shoulder and shrugged. “That’s their cookie. I want_ my _cookie.”_

_Lavellan stared at the expensive recipe book now lying face down, some of its pages creased._

_“Dorian’s going to murder us,” he said._

_“He can wipe his arse with it.”_

Some things never changed. Good thing he still sort of remembered how to make cookies.

* * *

He didn’t remember how to make cookies.

They squinted at the concoction sitting in the bowl.

“Think it’s good?” Sera asked, pinching off some of the dough and popping it into her mouth.

He smacked her hand. “Quit eating it.”

“Looks right. Tastes right?” She chewed. “Why’s it crunchy?”

He had a bad feeling there was too much sugar, but he was dead certain he’d put in the right amount. Unless Sera added more while he wasn’t looking.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said. “Let’s go flatten them.”

Sera, of course, made dick-shaped cookies. Lavellan eventually gave up on making normal cookies and made dick-shaped cookies with her.

She made a ridiculously long one and said, “Solas wishes.”

“Sera, that’ll break in the oven.”

“Something, something, long in the Fade, teeny weeny here.”

They popped the tray in the oven.

“Left balls are me, you’re the right balls,” said Sera. “Sera and Quisitree cookies. Aw, piss! Should’ve made a tree.”

Sera snacked on the leftover chocolate bits as Lavellan dusted himself off and wiped down some of their mess.

“You could help you know,” he huffed. She threw chocolate at him in response.

They were quiet for a while and Lavellan fell into his thoughts as he wiped things down, juggling through the things he needed to do, making a mental checklist, worrying about anything and everything, listening to the Well’s undecipherable whispers.

“Wasn’t as much of a dung as I thought it’d be,” said Sera, bringing Lavellan out of his head. He glanced at her. “Making cookies, I mean. Don’t see what the fuss is about now. She could’ve learned to make it, I would’ve helped. But pride cookies. Guess she liked being right more.”

“She probably had insecurities that made her act like that. But expressing insecurities in unhelpful ways like that just ends up hurting the people you care about.”

“You got them?”

“Of course.”

She paused. Then said, “You’re real elfy, you know?”

“Yeah?” he said warily, caught off-guard by the sudden topic change.

“But you don’t try to make me elfy or get all puckered about it.”

“That’ll just piss you off.”

She snorted in agreement.

“And you’re still figuring stuff out,” he continued.

She didn’t answer, stayed silent for a long moment. Lavellan could tell she wanted to ask something else, but he didn’t probe, just settled in the silence and let her collect her thoughts.

“I don’t get it,” she eventually said. “All magicky and… It doesn’t make sense! Fade-y, Veil-y things and Solas talks but he doesn’t _talk_. Why do we feel things other people don’t? It’s weird, innit? I don’t like it. I don’t want to feel the air being warbly sometimes or pissy the next. And I do hear you and Solas when you talk all elfy.” She paused. “Well, not _hear_ hear, but I know. But I don’t. I don’t know! I’m not supposed to; I don’t want to.”

Sera grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at the empty air. The white cloud lazily drifted down.

“I just want things simple,” she muttered. “And you’re not simple. But I want to like you.”

“I’m not simple?” Lavellan asked. “Because of the whole Herald thing?”

“I— I don’t know. You feel _weirder_ now. I mean, you’re already weird but that’s a different weird. Different from a person weird. Like how Bull or Blackwall or Varric is weird. But now you’re like Solas weird. Ugh, I said the word too much. Even weird is weird.”

“What kind of weird?” He threw her another look over his shoulder. Her face was scrunched in concentration.

“Dunno. Veil’s weird ‘round you, all wiggly. Mean, it was always weird, but only around your hand. And it was warbly, not wiggly. Then all of you starts making it wiggly. I dunno what you’ve been doing but stop it. I don’t—” She shook her head. “I don’t want you to be a bad weird, right? Be a good weird with us. Stay being a good weird.”

Lavellan couldn’t name the feeling churning in his chest. He put the cloth down and walked over to her, but stopped, unsure of how to respond. He retrieved the cloth and wiped the table down instead.

“We’re here,” she mumbled. “Just remember that, yeah? _Here_ here. People.”

“Well, when you plant a tree, it stays, right?” he asked, grinning. “Quisitree’s got his roots down.”

She snorted and threw flour at him.

“Yeah, like that,” she said, grinning back. “That kind of weird.”

Lavellan’s grin softened into a smile. When Sera turned back to the oven to check on the cookies, his smile faded.

 _Lirath tarasyl’nin tal adhal, [1]_said the Well.

 _“ Sil su mar'len, [2]”_ he growled at it.

The Well’s whispers softened.

* * *

Their dick-shaped cookies ended up looking deformed and it almost broke their teeth when they bit into it. They decided it a failure for consumption but a success for ammunition.

After an afternoon of pegging rock-hard cookies at people, Sera gave him a high-five and retreated to the tavern. Lavellan reserved one cookie though. He covered it with a cloth and headed towards the rotunda with a barely suppressed smile.

“Good afternoon, lethallin,” Lavellan greeted as he entered, the cookie held behind his back. Solas looked up from whatever he was writing.

“Hello,” he said. “I’ve been hearing about peculiar complaints. It seems that a few unfortunately shaped projectiles were being launched at unassuming bystanders.”

“Strange. And has nothing to do whatsoever with what I’m about to give you.” Lavellan revealed and offered the cloth-wrapped cookie. Solas cautiously took it.

“What is this?”

“It’s edible.”

Solas unwrapped it. Lavellan pursed his lips and managed to suppress his snickers but not his smile. Solas stared at it.

“What is this?” Solas asked.

“I think you know what it is.”

It was the only cookie that had retained its clearly phallic shape.

“You’ve spent too much time with Sera,” said Solas.

“I actually baked it with her.”

“Ah, that does explain everything.” He turned the cookie, examining it. “This does not look edible.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Solas knocked it against the table but the cookie didn’t break or crumble. It was like stone hitting wood.

“You’ve put too much sugar,” said Solas.

“Stop criticising the damn cookie,” Lavellan laughed. “Just eat it.”

“I like having teeth. I would like to keep them.”

“Just a nibble.”

Solas rewrapped the cookie and put it down. He stood. “I finished the mural for your room. Would you like to see it?”

“You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

Lavellan pursed his lips, trying to maintain his scowl despite Solas’ growing smile.

“Fine,” said Lavellan. “But you’re bringing the cookie with—"

“Excellent. Come, lethallin.” Solas placed his hand on Lavellan’s back and nudged him out of the rotunda, leaving the cookie behind. Lavellan laughed but granted him some mercy and obliged, buzzing with anticipation the whole way up to his quarters.

“When did you finish it?” asked Lavellan.

“It dried fully yesterday. Alexius required my assistance this morning so I was unable to tell you.”

They reached his quarters and stood in the middle of the room, looking up at the wall cloaked by Solas’ magic.

“Ready?” Solas asked.

Lavellan nodded. Solas waved his hand and the air shimmered. The blank wall bled with colour and shape, as though it were a mirage gaining definition.

The mural revealed itself. A soft breath of awe escaped Lavellan.

It depicted a scene reminiscent of the Emerald Graves, made Lavellan feel as if he were back within the forest, looking up at the mighty trees. A rain of sunlight needled its way through the canopies, gilding the vibrant emerald leaves, golden light dripping down the ancient trunks. Flowers dotted the forest floor, and—

Lavellan’s eyes widened. Was that…?

He rushed up to the upper walkway and scrutinised the figures he’d picked out within the piece.

It was a white wolf and a red-crested raven playing together, easily missed within the large piece unless you were paying close attention to it.

Those two weren’t the only things hidden within the forest either. There were also aravel sails peering past the trees, some displaying the red and gold colours of Clan Venalin, some displaying the purple and blue of Clan Lavellan. A small herd of halla was nearby with Hanal’ghilan within it, staring skyward.

He searched for more surprises, found figures milling about doing various activities. There was Blackwall with Sera standing on his shoulders, Varric talking to Cassandra and Cullen, the Iron Bull walking beside Dorian and Vivienne. Ellana was sitting beneath a tree with Josephine and Leliana. There was Revasha, perched on a tree branch with her bow, and Scout Harding surveying the forest with her hands on her hips.

Lavellan placed his hand on the wall, warmth building behind his eyes.

Solas had painted home.

He glanced down at Solas, who was awaiting Lavellan’s verdict, standing so still — nervous.

“It’s home,” said Lavellan, smiling.

Solas relaxed and smiled back.

Lavellan regarded the piece again, marvelling at the attention to detail, the clever use of colours and silhouettes to draw the eye and lead it through the forest. He brushed his fingers over the wolf and raven.

Solas wasn’t present in the piece. Not as the elf anyway.

_What are you trying to tell me?_

He looked back at Solas and their gazes met. Something vulnerable bled into Solas’ smile and a silent understanding passed between them.

Lavellan forewent the ladder and jumped over the railing to get down.

Solas’ smile faded in favour of a reproachful look.

Lavellan grinned. “What? It was just a short drop.”

“You are impossible.”

He chuckled, couldn’t stop smiling, heart bursting with light and colour as if it had soaked up the warmth of the mural and had made it its own.

“Thank you,” said Lavellan, wishing he could convey this light and warmth within him.

“I hope it is to your liking,” said Solas.

“It’s wonderful.”

They gravitated towards the balcony where they spent a moment of silence observing the expanse of the Frostbacks and the thawed river, the bustle of Skyhold.

“You’re not wearing the cloak,” Solas noted.

“Didn’t want to get flour and egg or something on it. When Sera’s in the kitchen, nothing stays clean.”

Bringing Sera up just reminded Lavellan of their earlier conversation.

If she could feel the Veil behaving strangely around him, then Solas had definitely picked up on it. So why wasn’t he saying anything?

Lavellan leaned his elbows against the railing and resisted sighing. Everything was so complicated.

He looked back at the mural again, if only to calm himself down. He immediately relaxed at the sight of it, his heart still draped in that warmth and light of comfort and home.

It was a good reminder that this was what he was fighting for. Who he was fighting for.

_“Please,” Dorian whispered. “Don’t live to die. Don’t die for us, for them. Live for us. With us.”_

_“If I can presume to ask,” said Cassandra, “live with us rather than die for us.”_

_“We’re here. Just remember that, yeah?_ Here _here. People.”_

He wanted to be here.

Lavellan glanced down at his left hand. “You studied the Anchor, right?” he asked. “Do you think it can be removed?”

Solas frowned. “That… would be difficult.”

“How so?”

“The Anchor itself is energy, vibrating on the same wavelength as the Veil which allows you that connection to the Fade. Your entire body houses that energy, concentrating at the central point when you focus it, which would be your hand. To remove it, you must first gather all that energy and removed it with the aid of the orb. I suspect Corypheus’ was unable to reclaim it at Haven because he’d failed to gather the Anchor in one place.” He made a soft sound and looked away. “The process of removal is likely to be harrowing on your part.”

“I am well acquainted with pain.”

Solas looked back at him gravely. “You may lose your arm. Accumulating all of it in one place… It would turn your flesh into nothing but magic.”

Lavellan’s gaze saddened. “When Wisdom stopped me from keeping the sunder open, she told me that if I’d continued, I would have exacerbated the Anchor’s condition prematurely.”

Sorrow briefly flashed in Solas’ eyes but he looked away before Lavellan could confirm it.

“What are you not telling me?” asked Lavellan.

Solas had never told him in the first timeline that the Anchor was killing him. Why hadn’t he? He’d _known_ it would destroy Lavellan, _known_ it would cause unimaginable pain as the years progressed, that it would disintegrate his flesh into a soup of light and pain.

Did Solas just not have the means to remove it?

_“If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort.”_

Lavellan’s heart twisted. Was that it? He didn’t want Lavellan to live knowing his death was near? Did he see that as a mercy?

Solas cast his gaze down. “I… suspect that you cannot hold onto it for long. It may grow too powerful and prove to be life-threatening.”

“You suspect,” Lavellan repeated, an edge to his tone. “And how long have you suspected?”

He didn’t answer.

“Were you ever going to tell me that my time was limited?”

“I did not want to tell you without concrete evidence,” he said.

But Fen’Harel had said with such conviction that the Anchor would kill Lavellan. Who was lying?

“Is that the truth?” Lavellan asked. “It’s a suspicion and not a fact?”

“I was hoping it wasn’t true,” said Solas and there was a sincerity and almost desperation to his voice that couldn’t be fake. “But seeing its condition with Wisdom… It confirms my worst fears.”

So then, had he been trying to scare Lavellan when he’d claimed as Fen’Harel that Lavellan would die? Was that supposed to make him feel better?

Lavellan rubbed his face and hung his head.

“Fine,” muttered Lavellan. “When this is over, and we’ve closed all the rifts, I want you to remove the Anchor.”

“Despite the risks?”

“Despite the risks.” Many had dismissed him not fit for fighting anymore, had thought him no longer any danger or threat, useless. Just because he’d lost a limb? They had all acted as if it was the end of him.

It had been so infuriating. Disheartening. But he'd managed. He could manage again.

“You would sacrifice a limb to continue living?” asked Solas.

“My friends asked me to live with them.” His lips twisted. “A man told me I’m not helping anyone by living to die.”

Solas’ eyes widened.

“Why do you look so surprised?” asked Lavellan.

“I… I do not know. Perhaps I have been so accustomed to yelling at an immovable wall.”

“Is the immovable wall me or people in general?” 

“Both.”

Lavellan sighed. “I have met people I have grown to love dearly. I want to stay with them. Live with them. I want to greet another day, share another laugh. Fuck dying young. I want to grow old.” He clenched his hands and stared at the mountains stretched out ahead of him with a set expression. “I want to live.”

His declaration settled in the quiet.

“I know I can be stubborn,” continued Lavellan, “and sometimes it’s hard to listen. Not because I don’t value your counsel. I value it. It means a lot to me.” Solas’ gaze flickered up at him, vulnerable once again, shadows within his eyes. “But you’re right. Ultimately, I can’t help anyone by barrelling headfirst into death. No matter how much I’ve eluded it. It’s hard but…” He watched the sky. It was softening into a peachy hue as dusk approached. “But I’ll try.”

He didn’t expect Solas’ next response.

“You look so weary,” he whispered. “You have always looked so weary. Ever since I met you.”

No, he had not been weary the first time they’d met.

“The years press on,” Lavellan said instead. “So many that I care about have died. Some from my hand. I should have died with them.”

During that cursed day, he should have died with Solas and Cassandra.

His heart wrung. “He sacrificed everything,” Lavellan found himself saying. “Himself. Everyone else. I was so angry. Sometimes I wonder if I should have tried harder to…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

Solas placed his hand over Lavellan’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “He made his choice. It is not your responsibility.”

_Solas turned his back on Lavellan. Lavellan screamed._

“But I loved him,” Lavellan admitted, voice breaking. “I loved him, Solas. I just wish…” He swallowed the thickness in his throat. “I just wish I could’ve asked him why he—” Lavellan shook his head, stared right at Solas. “I want to look him in the eye and ask _why_. Why, Solas, _why_?”

Solas looked back at him, torn, but it was likely due to the distress in Lavellan’s voice over the question. It was a punch to the gut. This was not the Solas he wanted answers from.

Lavellan closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath as he turned away.

“Never mind,” said Lavellan, resigned. “I do know why. No matter. He’s gone now.”

“What was his name?” Solas asked softly.

 _Does it matter?_ “Names give power and he has enough over me.” Lavellan forced some cheeriness back into his tone and expression, tried to smile. “Ah, but I’m sorry for raining on your parade. And after making such a wonderful mural too.”

His gaze softened. “You need not do that. You do not have to put up a front.”

Lavellan’s smile slowly faded. He stared at Solas’ hand over his, and cautiously, turned his hand over and threaded their fingers together.

“Neither do you,” Lavellan murmured.

They both stared at their joined hands, unable to look each other in the eye. Solas opened his mouth, then closed it, battling internally with something for a while.

“I…” said Solas. His brows scrunched. “Mahanon, I’m…”

Solas quieted, his internal turmoil growing. He eventually gave a small, defeated sigh, so soft that Lavellan almost missed it. He squeezed Lavellan’s hand again instead and smiled.

“I’m glad to have met you,” was what Solas said.

It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but it was just as true as _I’m Fen’Harel_.

Lavellan was alright with that for now.

Together, they watched the sun set over the mountain peaks, weaving the threads of their shared silence to say what they couldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sera, my beloved. You are so hard to write.
> 
> Lavellan really just told Solas to eat a dick, huh? 
> 
> But yeah! Mural has been unveiled, and emotions are flying everywhere. (Emotions? In _my_ fic? It's more likely than you think)
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Translation
> 
> [1] **Lirath tarasyl’nin tal adhal:** Unless a storm uproots the tree[⇧]  
> [2] **Sil su mar'len:** Mind your own business (lit. mind to yourself)[⇧]


	64. The fall of the false griffon

_the dead do not atone_

* * *

“Something interesting has happened in Val Royeaux,” said Josephine during a War Council.

“Oh?” he asked. “Good or bad?”

She frowned down at her board. “It appears a group of scholars have begun protesting through the market streets, demanding that the University of Orlais be open to everyone, starting with the elves.”

“So… it’s good, right?” he said.

“There was a little accident,” said Leliana. “It involved fire and an unfortunate warehouse.”

“Mostly good,” he amended.

“And they claimed to be close friends of the Inquisition to avoid punishment. The Orlesian authorities are requesting for a clarification. The scholars have also sent a letter of apology and a few gifts to make up for the lie.”

He grinned. “Well, _now_ we’re close friends, whoever they are. Not a lie at all.”

“Inquisitor,” said Josephine with a warning tone.

He laughed and raised his hands up in placation. “Alright, alright. We’ll release a formal statement.”

“Very good. What would you like to say?”

“That they were not acting under my name or orders, but I support their cause. As for the Orlesian authorities, tell them we’ll pay for the damages.” He paused, then smiled. “Also, say that I call for our allies within the Orlesian court to support Empress Celene’s original plans to open the University to all. Celene was already working on it, wasn’t she? Until the entire civil war, at least.”

“Very well, Inquisitor,” said Josephine, writing down his response.

“Testing your influence, are we?” asked Leliana with a small smile.

“Their favour won’t last long. May as well pull a few strings while they’re still strong,” Lavellan said. “Any other news?”

His three advisors glanced at each other.

“Cassandra has found the whereabouts of the missing Seekers,” said Cullen.

“Oh,” said Lavellan. “Oh dear.”

* * *

Lavellan, Varric, and Vivienne accompanied Cassandra to Caer Oswin where they confronted the Lord Seeker, then returned to Skyhold with the book Lucius had passed onto her. Cassandra retreated with it, quiet and subdued. Varric watched her go, brows furrowed in worry.

“It would be best if we give her some time to absorb the recent events,” said Vivienne.

“Yeah,” murmured Varric.

It was disconcerting to see their most stalwart friend looking defeated.

Lavellan checked up on her that afternoon. Cassandra was in the armoury, the book in front of her on the table, her head in her hands. She looked up at his arrival.

“Inquisitor,” she greeted, looking weary. “ I was… reading. I think you’d like to hear this.”

He pulled up a seat and sat across her. “What have you found?”

Cassandra took a deep breath, then opened the book. She flipped through the pages, explaining the Rite of Tranquility, its possible reversal, and the corruption within the Seekers. The further along the story she got, the more her shoulders fell. Once she finished, she pushed off the chair and stood, facing out the window.

“Power becomes its own master,” said Cassandra. “We cast aside ideals in favour of expedience and tell ourselves it was necessary. For the people.” She looked at him. “Will that happen to us? Will we repeat history?”

Lavellan sighed. “At some point, we should lay down the sword. The repeat becomes a real threat when we continue to carry the sword even when it’s no longer needed.” The Inquisition of old had become an abominable force. He couldn’t let that happen. They had to stop at the peak before the decline.

“But how do you know when it is time?” she asked.

_Usually, a council of old people tell you you’re overstepping your bounds._

“We’ll see the beginning of it, I think. When that happens, we sit down and discuss it.”

“Perhaps the fall begins when secrets are allowed to fester,” she said, and his breath hitched. “When you act to survive rather than serve, as the Seekers did.” Her expression hardened. “That is _not_ the Maker’s work.”

Lavellan considered her determined gaze. “You want to rebuild them.”

“Without secrets,” she said. “I cannot be the only Seeker left. I will find the others scattered to the winds, one by one, and we will all read this book, and establish a new charter together. The Maker’s work in truth.” The determined light in her eyes flickered, the first glimpse of uncertainty. “Do you think it possible?”

“Of course I do,” he said without hesitation. He’d seen it for himself. “You’re determined, and faithful, but not to the point of fault or blindness. You’re an honest woman. And we need more honesty in the world. Truth.” He cast his gaze down. “Amid all the secrets.” How ironic that he had become a symbol of light when the secrets had once been his domain. “Rebuild them into something better.”

She huffed and sat back down. “Do they deserve it?”

“You can make them deserving,” said Lavellan.

“You would place such faith in me?”

“Just as you have with me.” He offered her a small smile. “You have the drive, and you care about this. It’s personal.”

“Perhaps too personal.”

“With something like this, you’d hope it was personal. Otherwise, things just go to shit.”

She clasped her hands over the table and was quiet for a long moment.

“I will think on it,” Cassandra eventually said. She looked up and gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mahanon. I could not have done this alone.”

“And thank you as well.”

Her smile morphed into a confused look. “What for?”

“I just…”

His mind flashed to all the times she’d stood by his side, talking or knocking sense into him, being his shield on the battlefield, being his pillar when he’d felt close to crumbling.

“I couldn’t have done this alone, either.”

* * *

He sat on the battlements, carving Revasha’s pendant as his thoughts wandered, but they always circled back to what Cassandra had said.

_“The fall begins when secrets are allowed to fester.”_

Some part of him rejected it, the part that had been dependent on the shadows. The part that had walked within it.

And now, he was one of the most well-known people in Thedas. Too much light.

> _“Someone has written an account about you,” says Asunara with mild amusement, reading the scroll in her hands._
> 
> _“Destroy it,” he says._
> 
> _Her gaze snaps up in surprise. “Would this not discourage people from misbehaving? Knowing that they are being watched?”_
> 
> _“It will make them vigilant. I’m meant to be forgotten.” Lavellan holds his hand out and she gives him the scroll. He reads through it with a small hum._
> 
> _And sets it on fire._
> 
> _“I want to assign you as the Master of the Archives,” he tells her. “You will oversee the El’amelan’s written records, and you will help me keep Dirthamen’s secrets since you’ve proven to have the mental tenacity for them. I also want you to ensure that any information about me is destroyed.”_
> 
> _“You cannot be completely forgotten. People tell stories.”_
> 
> _“Stories twist. Stories can obfuscate. I can hide within them.”_
> 
> _“Written information can also be manipulated.”_
> 
> _“They can still make it easier to track the truth. Subjective retellings are less reliable.” He crosses his arms. “It’s better this way.”_
> 
> _She bows her head. “Vin, Ras’virelan.”_

Lavellan hummed to himself. It made perfect sense, of course, but…

“Cut the guy with memory loss some slack,” he grumbled.

Still, it must have been nice being invisible to the public. Although, he now felt differently about other people’s stories and how their retellings would twist. He’d welcomed the truth being lost in Elvhenan, but now, he wanted to preserve it, to keep himself, because everyone’s worship had taken enough out of him.

How had Dirthamen felt about being worshipped?

The squeal and laughter of children caught his attention. Lavellan turned his head, found Blackwall in the courtyard surrounded by children, distributing the wooden toys he’d made. Lavellan smiled. He pocketed the incomplete pendant and his carving knives and made his way down.

By the time Lavellan got there, the children were already running off with their new toys while Blackwall waved them goodbye.

Blackwall dusted his hands off and nodded at Lavellan’s approach.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted.

“The children seem happy today.”

He chuckled warmly and watched them go with a fond light in his eyes. “Just doing my part. They’re overwhelmed and scared enough about everything that’s been happening. Thought I’d give them something they can be happy about.”

“It’s good, what you’re doing. Thank you for this.”

Blackwall smiled, but that smile faltered as something troubled crossed his expression. A foreboding feeling settled in Lavellan’s gut.

“Want a drink?” asked Blackwall. “I’ve a hankering for company.”

Lavellan looked out at the children again. Blackwall _was_ in the habit of giving out handmade gifts to the children but…

“You don’t usually give them out in large batches,” said Lavellan.

Blackwall didn’t answer and headed for the tavern instead, leaving Lavellan with no choice but to follow.

“What do you feel like drinking?” asked Blackwall. “My shout.”

Lavellan eyed him, suspicion brewing. “I’m feeling Rivaini ale.”

His suspicions were proven right when Blackwall told him about the dog.

“There’s always some dog out there,” said Blackwall. “Some fucking mongrel that doesn’t know how to stay away.”

Lavellan stared down at his drink. “If you think about it, supposed heroes are the mongrels.” He traced the rim of his tankard. “Always involving themselves. They get strung up for their efforts.”

He was pretty sure he heard the bartender muttering, “Well this is depressing,” down at the tankards he was wiping.

Bull and the Chargers eventually joined them for a round or ten of drinks, but Blackwall and Lavellan didn’t drink any more. They both knew they’d need to be sober for the morning.

And so, the night passed, and morning came.

Lavellan returned to the stables just after dawn.

Blackwall was gone.

There was a letter pinned to the rocking griffon that Blackwall had finished carving. Lavellan’s phoenix carving was resting beneath the letter. He picked the phoenix up with a heavy heart and read the message.

 _I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man you believed me to be,_ said the concluding lines. _It’s been my honour to serve you. Please pass my apology on to Warden Stroud as well._

Lavellan folded the letter, tucked it in his pocket along with the carving, and rushed to the rookery.

Leliana was conversing with one of her agents, reading over a crumpled sheet of paper. She looked at him once he arrived, unsurprised to see him.

“This was missing from last week’s reports,” said Leliana. “It says there is to be an execution for those responsible for the Callier Massacre. Judging by your look, I assume you know what’s going on more than I do.”

“It was a hunch,” he lied.

“Then I’ll leave this matter to you. You know what to do next?”

He nodded.

She smiled wryly. “Ride swift,” she bid.

Lavellan took Varric, Solas, and Bull (he’d chosen them for moral support more than anything), and they raced to Royeaux, changing horses at each town if only to cut back on time.

They reached the bridge to Val Royeaux and Lavellan all but jumped off his horse, sprinting over the bridge, the light summer drizzle pricking at his cheeks. They entered the summer bazaar where a sizeable crowd had gathered before the gallows.

A man stood defeated on the gallows, a noose resting around his neck. The bailiff read out the charges. Lavellan searched the crowd frantically—

“Stop!” called Blackwall, rushing up the gallows. “This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him.” He faced the crowd. “Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier.”

“Oh shit,” said Varric.

“Then find me the man who gave the order,” said the bailiff.

Lavellan could only watch with his heart in his throat, unable to say anything.

“I gave the order. The crime is mine.” Blackwall squared his shoulders, a man ready to stare death in the eye. “I am Thom Rainier.”

The crowd gasped. Bull made a surprised sound.

Blackwall and Lavellan’s gazes met briefly, but Blackwall turned his head away in shame.

The guards took Blackwall away and the crowd jeered as he left, but the rain began to bucket down and forced everyone to disperse and seek shelter. Lavellan made his way to the bailiff, pulling his hood down for recognisability, and the bailiff straightened at his approach.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” the bailiff hailed, saluting.

“Where are they taking him?” he asked.

“The jail off the old marketplace. If you’ve goodbyes to say, Inquisitor, say them now. Many want to watch that man swing.”

Lavellan swept his wet hair back and out of his face, and turned to his companions. “I’m going to go see him. Is anyone coming?”

“I’m going to end up punching him,” said Bull. “And they’re going to have to drag me away for public disruption.”

“I need to sit down,” said Varric.

Solas eyed Lavellan. “You knew.”

Lavellan sighed. “I did some digging,” he lied again.

“I knew something didn’t add up right,” muttered Bull, “but I wasn’t expecting this. If you knew, why’d you keep him around?”

He smiled dryly at Bull. “I guess your nickname stuck for a reason.”

Bull made a soft noise. “Mercy, huh?”

Lavellan glanced at the old marketplace’s general direction. “If you think you’re going to end up punching Blackwall—”

“He’s not Blackwall,” said Bull.

Silence descended over them like the swift fall of an executioner’s blade.

“If you think you’re going to end up punching Rainier,” Lavellan amended, “go wait at the bazaar café.”

“I will come with you,” said Solas.

He nodded. “Alright.”

Bull and Varric left, and night had fallen by the time Lavellan and Solas found the prison. The Orlesian guards nodded at their arrival and directed them down a narrow, claustrophobic corridor lined with empty cells. Torchlight flickered over the dark stones, dancing to the rhythm of the faint patter of rain. A single swathe of dim light entered through the high and small barred windows of the corridor.

Lavellan stopped at the final cell. Black— _Rainier_ was sitting on the cot with his head bowed. Solas stayed in a corner, regarding Rainier with a look that you’d give a stray, limping dog.

For a while, there was only silence. Lavellan felt an uncomfortable droplet of water slide down his back from his hair.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” said Rainier, finally breaking the silence. “I traded his death. He wanted me to be a Warden, but the darkspawn ambushed us and killed him. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man.” He shook his head. “But the man he _was_ wouldn’t have let another die in his place.”

Lavellan looked out the window. He’d left Blackwall— Rainier here last time. Had thought that this would be Rainier’s atonement to make. The one good deed he could do.

How mistaken Lavellan had been. This was no good deed; this was a waste.

“So what?” asked Lavellan. “You die and think it will all make up for it?”

“It’s a start.” He looked up at Lavellan, the shadows of the bars superimposed over his face. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted answers,” said Lavellan. “And because you’re my friend.”

Rainier’s expression twisted and he stood, gripped the bars and rattled them. He gnashed his teeth. “You’re friends with a _murderer_ , a traitor, a monster. This is the truth; this is who I am. I am not, and never was, the good man you thought me to be. I gave the orders to kill Lord Callier and his family and I never told my men the truth, and when it came to light, I _ran_.” He fell to his knees, as if he couldn’t hold himself up. He laid his forehead on the bars “My men paid for treason while I played make-believe.”

“A monster would have kept running, wouldn’t have tried to make amends, wouldn’t have felt remorse. I know monsters, Rainier. I’ve looked them in the eye.” Lavellan crouched but Rainier wouldn’t raise his head. “You’re not one of them.”

He said nothing. The rain abated outside.

Lavellan stood and stared at the top of Rainier’s bowed head.

_“Goodbye, Blackwall,” said Lavellan, then left._

_The letter arrived days later at Skyhold informing them of Rainier’s death._

_Sera wailed._

He walked away, steps determined, and Solas walked beside him. They left the prison. The rain had stopped, petrichor filling their noses, the slick stones reflecting the orange light of the gas lamps.

“What do you plan to do?” asked Solas.

“I plan to make him atone properly.”

* * *

“We need to get Rainier out of Orlesian custody,” he told his advisors.

“You have connections within the underworld…” started Leliana. Lavellan clenched his fists. No, Rainier would hate that. She took his reaction as a rejection. “Or we could find a decoy, similar build and appearance, have him take—”

“No,” said Lavellan. “That’s worse.”

“We could storm the prison, take it by force,” suggested Cullen.

“Just as bad and will jeopardise our political connections.” Lavellan gnawed at his lip, the skin raw from being picked at and bitten. He hung his head.

“I can do it,” came Josephine’s soft voice. Lavellan raised his head. She wasn’t holding her board today, but her hands were fisted above the table. “Request a… special dispensation from the Orlesian throne to transfer Thom Rainier into our custody. This may anger some, but we are owed favours after Halamshiral.”

Lavellan frowned. “Jo, this will impact your reputation.”

“Allow me,” she said again, tone steely. Her fisted hands shook. “I want my answers.”

The thick silence which followed was almost suffocating.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Okay.”

* * *

He sat on the throne. The Great Hall was crowded. His inner circle was in attendance, as well as all the people Rainier had touched as Blackwall.

The soldiers escorted Rainier across the Hall, the metal of his chains clanging. Lavellan gripped the arm rest.

“Captain Thom Rainier,” Josephine presented, “formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall. His crimes…” She looked away. “Well, you know his crimes,” she said, an almost indiscernible waver in her voice. Rainier kept his head bowed. “It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of his fate is now up to you.”

By this time in the previous timeline, Blackwall had already died.

Well, in a way, Blackwall was already dead.

Lavellan said nothing for a long time, couldn’t find the words. Rainier chuckled mirthlessly at his silence.

“Having regrets?” Rainier asked. “How did you get me here?”

“Josephine called in a few favours,” said Lavellan.

“And what happens to the reputation the ambassador has so carefully cultivated?”

“She insisted she be the one to get you into Inquisition custody.”

Rainier finally looked up, fixing Josephine a disbelieving and despairing look. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Rainier bowed his head again, expression pained.

“Now the world will know how you used your influence,” Rainier mocked. “They’ll know the Inquisition is corrupt.”

“Believe me when I say the alternatives were worse.” He let go of the arm rests, clasped his hands over his lap instead.

“Why am I here?” Blackwall asked again, nigh begging. “I was ready to die and atone for my mistakes.”

“Because I never fault anybody for trying,” said Lavellan.

“I _murdered_ children.”

“And now you spend every spare moment making children toys, giving them simple joy.”

He laughed derisively. “Oh, being a toymaker absolves me of all my crimes?”

“No, but it tells me that you feel remorseful, that not a single second goes by where you’re not being gutted by what you've done. You may have pretended to be Blackwall, but the good things you did as him weren’t false. You think dying will make up for everything?” Lavellan huffed out an abrupt and torn laugh. “Rainier, living hurts far more. Living will be constant atonement.”

The crowd shifted, sharing uncertain looks with one another.

“Thom Rainier,” continued Lavellan, “I sentence you to be the man Blackwall believed you could be.”

Murmurs swept through the crowd. Rainier stared up at him, eyes wide.

“After Corypheus is dealt with, you will also complete your Joining. For now, the Inquisition needs you.” Lavellan’s gaze softened. “And if you survive the Joining, I sentence you to spend every waking moment knowing what you’ve done, and striving to be better, striving to be another force of good in the world.”

The murmurs grew in volume. Rainier scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head, falling to his knees, chains rattling.

“Why?” he asked, broken. Josephine turned her head away, lips pressing. Lavellan’s heart pulled. Seeing Rainier’s bowed and crumpled form battered at the foundations of Lavellan’s anchors.

_Stand up, stand up, I looked up to you. Stand._

Lavellan pushed himself off the throne and descended the steps. The murmurs grew even louder.

Rainier looked up. Lavellan reached into his pockets and crouched so they were eye-level and pulled out the phoenix carving. He offered it to Rainier whose expression crumbled further at the sight of it.

“I told you to look up before,” said Lavellan. “I told you to look at this when you waver or question yourself. I told you I believed in you, and I still do, so for fuck’s sake Blackwall— Rainier— Fuck. Just—” Lavellan forced himself to take a composing breath. He grabbed Rainier’s hand and pressed the phoenix into it, made Rainier close his fingers around it.

“I do not deserve this,” Rainier whispered.

“Then make yourself deserve it,” Lavellan snapped, and shoved Rainier’s hand into his chest. The chains rattled again. Lavellan stood and held out his hand. Rainier stared at it.

He took Lavellan’s hand.

Lavellan pulled him up.

Rainier cradled the phoenix close and bowed his head again.

“I told you to look up,” said Lavellan.

He took a shuddering breath, then he raised his head. Lavellan nodded at him.

“If I live,” promised Rainier, “I’ll make it count.”

“You’re already making it count,” said Lavellan. “Just continue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning sequence with the Orlesian scholars' protest is a nod to Merrowblueart and Mijura as thanks for the lovely package present they sent me <3 Thank you both so much <33
> 
> I honestly had a hard time during Blackwall's personal quest, ouch.
> 
> Cassandra: secrets bad  
> Lavellan: if secrets bad, why am i sexy
> 
> But yeah, jokes aside, a whole part of the reason why there's literally no surviving text about Ras is because he purposefully had them destroyed. Which, coupled with the fact that his faces literally change and he does occasional switcheroos with the El'amelan using his cloak, makes him really hard to track. Poor Hanon, lmao. 
> 
> Anyway, brace yourselves. Next week's gonna be interesting ;)


End file.
